Back Into The Field of Nightmares
by FindinNico
Summary: What would have happened if Katniss Everdeen saw her entry into the Quarter Quell as a blessing in disguise? Instead of living in fear, she sees her approaching death as a way to free herself of all restrictions and find a way to embrace those she loves and cares about wholeheartedly and without reserve. A new Katniss emerges. The Girl on Fire who is not afraid of feeling something
1. Chapter 1

**_President Snow removes an envelope clearly marked with a 75. He runs his finger under the flap and pulls out a small square of paper. Without hesitation, he reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."_**

A nervous chuckle escapes my lips and both my mother and Prim look over at me with searching eyes. _What must they be thinking?_ I wonder_. Probably waiting for me to fall apart so they can pick up the pieces._ My healer mother and her little assistant standing there waiting for their reaped District 12 victor to tumble to her knees in a fit of tears, cupping her chest to keep from breaking apart. I do the opposite. I turn and head for the door.

I ignore the light touch of a hand on my shoulder and start to run. I don't know where I'm running to I just let my legs carry me. They take me down my pathway past several houses in the Victors Village. My breathing starts to get heavy and the cold starts to seep into my bones as my feet move through the snow.

"Where are you going Katniss Everdeen? You can't outrun this. You've already tried," I whisper to myself in laboured breaths. Finally, I slow my pace and stand in front of an abandoned victor home gazing up at the night sky. It's so beautiful out tonight, the sky is clear and there are so many stars it takes what little breath I managed to regain after my mini marathon away. How? How could something like this happen on such a beautiful night?

This is when I crumble to the floor. Under the watchful gaze of the playful stars beaming down on me, I fall to the ground letting the painful realization consume me until I feel like I will never be able to rise again. There are only three victors left in District 12. I am the only female therefore, I am undoubtedly going back into The Hunger Games. This is not a coincidence. This is not a mistake. This probably didn't even come into being until after Peeta and I won the seventy-fourth Hunger Games.

I can picture exactly how President Snow phrased it, "_The Girl on Fire needs to be extinguished. She started a spark when she decided to test the Capitol with that handful of tiny blackberries and that spark has since grown into a flame._"

Sure the Capitol citizens will be displeased that the Star-Crossed Lovers are heading back into the arena. And of course they will hate to have to watch all the victors they've grown to love fighting for their lives once again. Will they stop it? No...they couldn't possibly. They don't have the attention span to stay angry about anything for more than five minutes. Perhaps that was a little rude to say. They do get quite attached to the victors over the years, styling their hairdo and make-up after us plainly dressed District people. That won't be enough to change anything though. Why would you rebel in the Capitol when you have everything you need?

* * *

I don't know how long I've been curled up on the ground shivering with only my tears to keep me company. When I finally come to, my lashes are heavy with slivers of frozen salt water.

"Get up," I urge myself. My legs refuse to cooperate. "You need to get up."

It takes a bit of time, but I eventually push myself to my feet. I use a handful of snow to rub off any residue from my face and then wipe off the water with my sleeve. Then I start to walk. This time I know where I am going, directly to Haymitch's house to work out a plan. I already know what the plan is. It's simple really. This seventy-fifth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen will not come home. I can be almost positive that's what President Snow intends anyway. But Peeta Mellark will make it out. It's only fair.

Like always, I don't bother to knock once I get to Haymitch's home. I just barge in. He is sitting at the table in the kitchen with a bottle of white liquor in his hand. He looks at me like he's been expecting me, lifting the left side of his mouth in a smirk. "So, you've figured it out Sweetheart?"

His statement beats around in my head for a minute. Figured it out? What does he mean I've figured it out? Figured out that I am going back into the arena? That President Snow did this to punish me? That all this time he was manipulating me? That no amount of hand holding, hugging or kissing would have ever stopped him from going after me or my family? Oh yes, I've figured it out. I hear the noise of a chair scraping against the floor which snatches me out of my daze.

"Whad'dya want? You came here for something," Haymitch slurs, "Are you here to beg me? Beg me to go into the arena so the boy doesn't have to?" He places his hand on the back of his chair to steady himself.

"Perhaps you should go back in," the words leave my mouth before I've had time to think about them. "You throw your life away in drink anyways."

He pauses, watching me like Buttercup. I almost expect him to hiss. Then he sighs and slumps back on his chair. "You have a point there," is all that he manages to say.

I walk over to the table now and take the seat to the left of him. I reach my hand out for the bottle.

"What are you doing?" Haymitch growls.

"Having a drink," I respond, almost mechanically. I don't want to feel anything when I have this conversation with him. Liquor seems to numb him, why shouldn't it work for me?

I take a swing of the sloshing white liquid from the tall clear bottle. It burns as it goes down and I resist the urge to gag. Does it get easier the more you drink? I hate the taste of the stuff, bitter and pungent. This is what I imagine poison would be like. The burn is addictive though. I can't describe why I enjoy the fierce fire that makes its way down my throat in a whoosh. I take another swing, draining the bottle. Haymitch huffs at me upset that I finished the rest, but he's already had enough to get him to a state of peaceful oblivion.

When I open my mouth to speak, I feel slightly giddy and light. Already I'm feeling the effects of the alcohol. I raise my index finger and smirk noticing how ragged my nail looks. I must have chewed on it while I curled up in a ball pouring out my sorrows to the stars. "Haymitch," I start, "This time...we save Peeta."

He stares at me as the words hit him. I see his reaction change from one of suspicion to one of understanding. "He came here you know," he answers, staring down at his hands. "He told...he told me that he wants to go back in the arena to protect you. Made me promise."

"Well...that sounds like Peeta."

Haymitch lets out a deep sigh. "Said that I owed it to him since I chose you the last games."

A pang of what...pity...guilt...yearning...hits me suddenly. Instead of wallowing at the idea of having to go back into the deathly battle zone, here was Peeta Mellark forming a plan with our drunken mentor to protect me. "That was stupid of him," is all I can manage to get out.

"You're a real piece of work Sweetheart," he says shaking his head, "How you ended up getting someone like him to pine after you is beyond me."

I brush off Haymitch's statements with a wave of my hand and start to put forth my plan. "You owe him yes, but not what he's asking. You owe him his life. Peeta can do a lot more in this world than I can. I need your help to protect him. It's me the Capitol is angry with. I dragged Peeta into my mess. Please Haymitch, say that you will help me."

My gray Seam eyes plead with his bloodshot ones. I'm afraid to blink in case he mistakes my gesture for resistance. I am positive that this is what I want. The only one worth making it out of the arena from this haphazard trio is Peeta Mellark. After what seems like a decade, Haymitch nods.

"No use hiding it now," he says in a voice that is so sincere and telling that I subconsciously lean towards him.

"Hiding the plan?" I ask him, but he shakes his head. Then what? What does he mean? I'm about to ask him when the door bursts open.

"I couldn't find her, has she come back here Haymitch?" I recognize the voice instantly. It's Peeta.

He spots me sitting at the table and our eyes lock. At first there is worry that clouds his beautiful blue irises and then it changes to disappointment with a hint of anger as he spots the liquor bottle an inch away from me.

"Peeta!" My voice is a little too cheerful, thanks to the liquor, and it only deepens the furrowed line in Peeta's brow. I clear my throat and try again, "What...how you been?" _Stupid_. I want to hit my head against the table. _How do you think he's been?_

"Katniss, I'm taking you home," his voice is stern as he walks over to where I'm sitting.

"Okay," by this time I am feeling the full effects of the clear liquid I gulped back a few moments ago. I push my chair back a little too forcefully and nearly fall backwards. Out of the corner of my eye I see Haymitch shake his head, but he stops abruptly. The stare that Peeta is giving him is so intense that he recoils.

"She snatched the bottle from me, I didn't give it to her," he tries to defend himself.

"You shouldn't have let it happen," Peeta scolds.

"He didn't let anything happen Peeta," I say as I get up. I'm about to tell him how taking a merry swing from the glass bottle was my decision, but the disapproving look on his face shuts me up instantly. I glance over at Haymitch begging him to save me but he just stares back. Peeta puts his hand on the crook of my back and leads me towards the door so I won't fall over. "I'll talk to you later," I call back to Haymitch.

The tension between Peeta and I is so thick that I don't even feel the cool air once I step outside.

"Katniss what were you thinking?" His voice is calm and controlled.

"Oh I don't know," I throw my hands up expressively. "I was thinking, here I am a victor, which doesn't seem to count for anything now a day Peeta I don't know if you noticed, and I'm going back to the Capitol except it's not for a leisurely vacation. It's not for our wedding, which I guess is a no-go huh considering one of us will be dead," thoughts keep leaping off of one another and I feel a bit like I did when I was under the influence of tracker jacker venom.

I've quickly forgotten the original question that Peeta asked me as I go on, talking more to myself than him. "And then we have to act like we are all ok with it. At least the food is good. I'm probably gonna' stuff myself until I feel like I'm gonna' explode and hope I die of overeating."

Peeta places his hand on my arm. I stop walking and look at him. Gosh, does he ever look beautiful in the moonlight. I feel the strongest urge to touch him, to place my hand on his face and wipe away the crease that has found a home on his forehead.

"Oh Peeta," I whisper. Oh Peeta what? What do I say to the boy with the bread looking at me so expectantly? There is something I should tell him, but my mind is so full with so many thoughts bouncing around I can't focus. I don't know how to voice what it is that is stirring somewhere inside of me. I'm staring right into his eyes, getting lost in them. They are like clear pools. I would love to just swim within their depths. What is this feeling?

Then there's a light coming from the left side of me illuminating my arm. Slowly I tear my gaze away from Peeta and towards the light. Standing in the doorway to my house is my mother, Prim and Gale. My eyes grow wide taking him in. Gale is walking over to me, his hunting jacket flung open revealing a strong chest cloaked in soft gray fabric. His face says everything before he even opens his mouth.

"I'll check on you tomorrow," Peeta says somewhere in the distance and then directs his next sentence to Gale, "She's been drinking." With that he walks off and I stare as the boy with the bread makes the trek back to his house.

Gale grabs my hand and searches my face then he pulls me into a hug. "I should have listened to you," he whispers in my ear.

Though my mind is cloudy I know immediately what he is referring to, the time when I took him into the woods and told him my plan to run away. To get as far away from District 12 as we could and find comfort and sustenance within the woods. Was that ever a reality? No, it could never have worked. There were too many people who I wanted to take with us that could never really understand the freedom behind the woods.

"It's no use Gale," I whisper back. "It wouldn't have worked. I need to stay here."

Then I find myself wrapping my arms around Gale and pulling him closer to me. I want to bury myself in the crook of his body, taking in his smell; the smell of long evenings in the woods and coal. Feeling the warmth radiating from Gale's body brings back fresh tears to my eyes. These hugs are numbered. Once I go back to the games, moments like this will never exist again.

I pull away without another word and unsteadily head towards my home. Gale doesn't make an attempt to stop me; he knows that I will find him when I'm ready to talk about it further. The differences we may have had before the Quarter Quell announcement no longer matter within the least. My mother and Prim make an opening for me to pass through and I trudge my way up the stairs to my bedroom using both my legs and arms to propel me. I flop onto the cushioned bed still in the clothes that I ran around the Victors Village in. I can't be bothered to change. What does it matter?

* * *

I don't sleep. My mind is buzzing and my body can't seem to stay still. I start rolling around on the sheets, back and forth, wrapping myself in the blankets like a caterpillar in a cocoon. I struggle against the fabric, wiggling like a bug trapped in the web of a prowling spider. And then I emerge, Katniss Everdeen, the seventy-fourth victor of The Hunger Games. The Girl on Fire ready to take on the world.

I jump around on the bed examining my surroundings, committing everything to memory. You would never know that this is my bedroom. Nothing in this room reflects me. The walls are a powdery blue. The fireplace tile is a little too ornate for me. The bed is large enough to fit myself, Prim and my mother comfortably. There is no coal hiding in the cracks.

I step down from the bed and peer through the window. It's positioned at the front of the house so I can see the entire Victor's Village and a little ways down to the square. The square that's changed so much since Romulus Thread and his group of Peacekeeper lackeys took over.

I flop back on the soft cushioned surface, lying down on my back with half my body hanging off the end of my bed. Haymitch's words float back to me _"You can stop hiding now."_

Stop hiding what? I don't think he was referring to all the illegal poaching I've done in the woods. No need for me to end up with red angry scars on my back like Gale. I know it has to do with something deeper than that. I'm known for being a very stoic person; hiding my emotions and dealing with them in private if I ever choose to deal with them. He must be talking about the way I feel about something.

"Stop hiding," I whisper to myself, letting my feet play in the silky sheets. "Stop hiding your feelings Katniss." Stop pretending to be head-over-heels in love with Peeta Mellark because that didn't save you like you wanted it to. Stop keeping everything bottled up inside because you're afraid of telling the people you love just how much you care for them in case they are snatched from your grip. Stop acting like Gale is your cousin because he's not. Gale...my breath catches. What was it that I decided that night he lay on the kitchen table in a morphling induced state after his whipping? I said that, _'He is mine. And I am his.'_

During the next couple months I have to live, I owe it to him to see if there is anything there. Whatever that may be.

_**Author Note  
****_**Hello everyone! This is my first fanfic...ever, so I'm very excited and nervous about it. I'm really intrigued by The Hunger Games series which is why I chose to try my hand at writing my own interpretation of it. I welcome all comments and criticisms. I hope to make this story a lengthy one as long as people are showing interest in it :)****


	2. Chapter 2 - Brand New Me

Chapter 2 - Brand New Me

**Author Note  
**Hey Yall! So if you read the first chapter you will notice that I tried to create balance between the plot from Catching Fire and my interpretation. The bold part in the beginning was an actual quote from CF. There will still be some similarities between the story, but I'm going to really try to make it my own. The title and sort of the feeling behind this chapter is inspired by Alicia Keys song Brand New Me Anyway Enjoy****

I awake, right side up in my bed wearing warm flannel sleeping pants and an oversized shirt. My mother's doing. She must have checked on me during the night and removed my tear-stained clothing while I was peacefully knocked out. I don't even remember falling asleep. I'm about to close my eyes again when I'm hit with a wave of nausea. I run to the bathroom and vomit up the vile liquid I swallowed the night before. How does Haymitch do this?

The alcohol tastes twice as bad coming up as it did going down. I stay by the toilet until the dizziness has subsided and then hoist myself up to the sink. I brush my teeth taking care to thoroughly rinse out my mouth so that none of the bad taste remains. When I start to walk back to the bed I notice my steps are still unsteady and the room is tilting.

"Is this a dream?" I whisper in disbelief.

I sink down to the ground on my hands and knees and rub my palms against the smooth wood flooring. This is my floor. I start to crawl toward the bed, but it keeps shifting away from me, sliding more and more to the right.

"Haymith deals with _this_ every morning?" I groan and give up. I curl up into a ball and fall back asleep several feet away from the bathroom and my bed.

* * *

I don't remember having night terrors the night before, but when I fall asleep again, they come to me with a vengeance. This time however, I'm not greeted by a smirking Clove as she threatens to carve a new mouth for me before putting an end to my life. Or the hollow gaze of a little boy from District 9 as a dagger finds a home in the center of his back. In this dream there is just me and the deserted streets of District 12.

Something is wrong. I'm wearing my father's hunting jacket and the same dark black boots I wore in the Games. I race towards the Victor's Village afraid that at any minute a pack of mutts might rush from the meadow to hunt me down. As I round the corner towards my house my knee smacks into something as solid as concrete and I stumble to the ground.

I whip my head around, convinced that I ran right into a trap and my attacker will appear out the shadows at any minute, but nothing happens. And when I look straight ahead all I see is a clear path leading up to the place I call home in the Victor's Village.

Carefully, I get to my feet and move forward, but something holds me back. There's a wall, a tall clear wall that prevents me from rushing towards the burnt brick cobble stones and through the decorative wooden door. I frantically turn around. Where is Prim? Where's my mother? Why can't I move forward

My first instinct is to go back to our old home in the Seam. I slow my pace as I reach the doorway, afraid that the same force may prevent me from going inside.

The first thing I notice is that the unhinged door swings aimlessly, back and forth, beckoning me to cross the threshold. There are large gashes running diagonally down the worn wood and large splinters gathered around my feet. I don't want to go into the house. I try to go back the way I came, but my feet press forward and then my hands are on the broken door pulling it open. My heart starts beating so loudly it's almost deafening.

The first tug of the door reveals my mother lying on her back on the warped living room floor, her eyes empty, staring up at the ceiling with a photo of the family clutched in her hands.

The second tug shows me Prim. Sweet, innocent Prim with her golden braids resting on her shoulders and her lips parted as if she was in the middle of speech. I fall to my knees, clinging to the worn door handle with hands that shake uncontrollably. And then a foreign force rips the handle out of my grasp. I jerk forward, toppling over the cold body of my mother and becoming face to face with the lifeless eyes of my father.

I am frozen, rooted to the spot as I stare at him. Dirt and coal dust soils his hair. His skin is a dull gray instead of a lively olive. He lies there with his cheek to the floor, looking at me with dark eyes that seem so insensibly disappointed.

"Daddy," the word doesn't make it to my lips.

I try to speak, but there is a lump lodged in the middle of my throat. It bobs when I swallow, but refuses to leave. No tears will come. I can't even shut my eyes. I extend a shaky hand towards him to brush away the tuft of hair that hangs over his eyes. I'm just about to touch him when his dirt stained hand creeps away from his body and grabs hold of my fingers.

"Katnisssss." My name slithers out of his mouth in a low haunting rumble and he drags out the 'S' in an agonizing hiss.

His hold gets tighter and I'm scared. I'm scared because he's going to break my hand. I'm scared because his eyes remain vacant and void and I'm scared because he isn't my father, he couldn't be. But I can't do anything. His eyes have me transfixed. I know if I could only tear my gaze away from him that I would be free. I could get up and run away. Run away from this man, splayed out on the floor in a tattered miner's uniform gripping my hand.

He starts to bend my fingers back and I yell out in pain. Still he continues, further and further until the pain is so intense I start to see spots and I wish...I just wish he would kill me. Kill me and take all of this pain away. My eyes start to flutter and when I hear the snap of my wrist I know that it won't be long until I pass out from the severe ache.

And then...And then someone is saying my name...

* * *

I jolt awake and find myself staring into two overly concerned deep blue eyes. I feel a hand gently stroke my hair.

"Katniss it was just a dream." I let my head fall to Prim's lap and she continues to stroke my hair reassuring me that it wasn't our dead father that I saw lying on the ground. She tells me that sometimes she dreams of dad too, sitting on the old wooden stool in our house at the Seam whistling as he carves a piece of wood into a funny looking doll.

I don't say a word. I focus on the way her voice sounds. The way she speaks reminds me of a butterfly. Her words dance off of her lips and flit towards my ears without the slightest bit of effort. Her voice is so cheerfully serene; I let it wash over me, fighting the demons that exist behind closed lids. When she's done telling me about how Lady _accidentally_ got into a bag of cookies that Peeta brought over a few days ago, I sit up.

"Feeling better?" she asks, brushing a few stray brown strands from off of my forehead. I turn towards her and manage to smile. Her hair sits in wisps running down her back. She's aged so much since last year because of all the sick she's taken care of. I almost feel as if I'm the younger one.

"As good as I can feel, I guess, considering all that's happened."

She gets up from the floor where she found me curled in a fetal position screaming. "You want to talk about it?" I know this isn't a question. She's given me a drunken night of solace. She expects that I will tell her what's been bothering me now. She can't stand to see me in pain.

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I force myself to my feet and take a seat next to her.

"Do you want to talk about the nightmares?"

I shake my head. As much as I want to bring someone into the horrifying world of the nightmare so I don't have to face it alone, I can't tell Prim about it. The last thing I want is for her to picture her deceased father with sunken eyes and a murderous grip.

Prim understands. She knows that it's best not to press me. She probably thinks it's just another terrible reoccurring dream. "Do you want to talk about the announcement," she suggests.

I stay silent for a long time, twirling the tail of my braid between my fingers. "It's just..." I start, staring at a tiny black spot on the wall in front of me. "I was suppose to be safe Prim. We were suppose to be safe." She nods in understanding. "And now I will miss out on seeing things that I'd rather not miss." I look up at her and she knows that one of those things I'm referring to is seeing her grow up. "It's..." my voice breaks.

"Not fair," Prim finishes.

I can't control the breakdown that comes after Prim utters those words. Not fair is an understatement. There are no words to accurately describe what it is. It's not quite betrayal is it? Because now I'm positive that being a victor never meant that things would get easier.

Nothing comes without a price in Panem. The moment your name gets pulled out of the glass ball and announced to all your fellow District citizens is the moment you've unknowingly signed an invisible waiver that tethers you to the Games, even after you've exited the arena. You're left playing for your life until the day that you take your last breath, hoping that eventually they'll let you go. That eventually they will forget about you and move to the next person. That one day you can finally put the Hunger Games behind you. But it never goes away. What you've done to some of the tributes in the Games and what you've witnessed clings to you like a leech.

And now I am going back there to reopen wounds that haven't even begun to heal.

My sobs are plenty and bare a weight that is almost suffocating. After a short while not even Prim can withstand bawling. We sit with our arms folded around each other crying and howling like lost bear cubs.

When you've struggled for most of your life, there is a lot to shed tears about. However, I find it's the happier moments that make me cry the hardest. The times when we would sit by the table and listen to dad tells us a story about spring or his walks near the square. Or when we would take Lady out by the meadow and she would eat until she would waddle. Or the times when we would be able to have fish for dinner and fresh rolls when the baker was feeling generous.

Halfway through our cry fest my mother walks in the room. She sits on the other side of the bed and wraps her arms around us and silently cries right along with us. It's cleansing. Having the ones I love here sharing in this pain with me. I take this time to cry until my eyes sting and my head pounds because I need to rid myself of this sorrow if I hope to have enough of my wits about to save Peeta.

After a while the sniffles die down and my mother rises from the bed. Her features distorted by puffy tired eyes and a reddened nose. She clears her throat before she speaks in a soft and surprisingly soothing tone. "Peeta came by. He brought over some cheese buns, I'll bring them up for you."

My eyebrow rises inquisitively and I remove my head from where it rested on Prim's shoulder. "Peeta came by? Why didn't he check on me? Did he say anything?" That doesn't seem like Peeta. Maybe the bakery was busy.

My mother walks towards the doorway, the fabric of her soft burgundy dress sways silently as she moves. "He said to meet him at Haymitch's at 4."

"What time is it now?" I ask, wiping at my nose with the back of my hand.

"2:00," and with that my mom leaves the room.

2 in the afternoon. I knew it was late, but I didn't expect it was that late. I rise off the bed and grab a forest green t-shirt and khaki pants from my closet then head towards the shower. I let the warm water wash away the rest of the pain; emotionally and physically.

The water trickles from my head, down my face and towards my toes. I realize that I don't want to classify myself as a victor who is afraid of life especially if I don't have that much more time to experience it. I imagine all the chains I've wrapped myself in washing away with the streams of water. I imagine all the rules I made to guard myself from acquiring anything that the Capitol might taint, spiraling down the metal grating. I let the water wash away any of the false beliefs I may have had after winning the past Hunger Games.

I stare at the drain as a new fearless Katniss emerges. She's not all there yet. I've spent years living with a protective shield around my heart. It won't go away in one day, but I can feel it starting to break. During these next few months I know I want to feel all the good that District 12 can offer me. I want to go off to the arena without regrets.

* * *

By the time I re-enter the room I feel considerably better. Prim is still there, sitting on the bed picking at a warm cheese bun that my mother brought up. I hop on the bed and snatch one off of the tray.

"You seem...happier," Prim smiles.

"I'm starting to accept things," I tell her, shrugging my shoulders and taking a huge bite out of the bun. I'm starving and the bread is so fresh and warm. It teases my taste buds the second it hits my mouth.

I spend the hour before I have to leave to meet Peeta talking with Prim and stuffing my face with the satisfying taste of cheesy dough.

She tells me about her relationship with Rory, something I've never thought to ask about. When I was in the Games, the Hawthorne's would often drop by our house in the Seam to give my mother and Prim a bit of added support while the cameras showed me outrunning fireballs and dropping lethal tracker jacker nests on my opponents . Rory is Gale's younger brother. I always thought he was just a friend of the family to her. He's a bit older than her, about two years. She tells me that it wasn't until they started spending so much time together that she started to see him as something other than '_the brother of my sister's hunting partner_.'

"I guess it's kind of silly," she says blushing, "since he's my cousin and all."

I stop chewing. That's the lie they had to tell the Capitol reporters. With my romance going on with Peeta, it wasn't a good idea to classify Gale as my best friend.

"Sometimes I stare at him. I don't mean to," she blurts out. "I just like the way his eyebrows shift when he's thinking. It's kind of funny. And he's really good at telling jokes. He told me this one about a rabbit. Or was it a goat? It must have been a goat because I remember Lady liked it too."

I never thought about how this little lie about Gale might affect Prim. She never really said anything about it before. I didn't think she even noticed boys. I know I didn't at her age.

"Prim, you're so young," I tell her quietly.

"I'm not the same 12-year old you left Katniss. I'm 13 now. Besides, it's just a crush."

I pick up a pillow and throw it her way. She ducks and falls over giggling. That's my little duck, always full of life. I find myself giggling right along with her.

**Authors Note  
**And so you see the new Katniss starting to emerge! You get to see a bit of her fears and how she wants to get passed them. Once again, I am going to follow the timeline of CF, but loosely. I wanted to make this chapter more about Katniss bonding with Prim, because well sista's before mista's hahaha.****


	3. Chapter 3 - What Will I Become?

****So originally this chapter was a lot longer, but there were so many emotions going on, so I split it up. That way it's easier to handle. I want to give a BIG THANK YOU to all the viewers, those who added this story to their favourites and those that took the time to write a review! You guys are my muse!****

* * *

Chapter 3

What Will I Become?

* * *

When four o'clock comes along, I am in a much better mood than when I woke up. I walk into Haymitch's house and inhale as deeply as I can, filing my nose with the overbearing scent of stale liquor and unwashed bodies. The air leaves my lungs in a fit of coughs. Even though Haymitch has a housekeeper now, the scent still lingers, desperately clinging to the walls and seeping into the crevices in the floorboards like an otherworldly being. The only way to vanquish it would be to completely strip the dank abode of all its furnishings and submerge it in a bath of citrus.

Though the smell brings my eyes to tears it's something that I want to remember, as bizarre as that sounds, so when I inhale again I clench my teeth willing the coughs back into hiding.

When I open my eyes Haymitch is looking at me with a mixed expression of pain and irritation. His scraggly peppered hair is more out of sorts than usual. Curly locks stick up in all directions as though he wandered too close to the protective fence during a raucous drunken stroll.

His stubby fingers grip the edge of his kitchen table so tightly that his knuckles appear ghastly white. He's still dressed in the same ripped blue linen pants that pool around his ankles and rumpled brown button-up that I left him in the other night.

He continues to stare at me with unflinching eyes, marking me like a predator. I feel like I am back in the woods being confronted by a rabid dog, but there are no trees to escape its reach.

"Haymitch," I speak his name as calmly as I can, trying to reach him without awakening the beast that threatens to claw its way to the surface of his consciousness.

There's a clanging noise coming from the stairway. I can't tell what it is. It causes me to shift my focus from the unshaven shell of a man before me to the clamorous jangle coming from my right. The sound feels like its right inside of my brain, rattling all of my nerves. I protectively place both of my hands over my ears as the noise shuffles towards me.

"What is that?" I ask Haymitch. He doesn't answer me, but I can tell that it is the source of his irritation by the frenzied twitch of his left eye. I inch my way towards the stairs to see for myself. It's Peeta, holding a cardboard box filled with dozens of empty glass bottles that playfully clink together with every step that he takes.

"Peeta what are you doing?" I refuse to believe that Peeta would do something so foolish as to raid Haymitch's cupboards and dispose of all of his white liquor.

"I've emptied them," he says defiantly. "Every bottle of liquor that was hiding in every nook is gone."

My heartbeat accelerates as the words penetrate my ears and register in my brain. _He did what!?_ I step back reaching for the door taking my eyes off of Peeta and carefully watching Haymitch, whose nails are digging into the clear lacquer blanketing the surface of the shiny wooden table.

"Are you insane!?" I hiss. I'm sure Peeta Mellark has not forgotten about the last time he tried to take liquor away from our drunken mentor. Though Haymitch may seem frail due to his hearty appetite for intoxicating substances, if you step between him and his drink you'll find yourself with a wallop of a bruise, or a black eye in Peeta's case.

"No. In fact I'm the only sane one here." The sight of Haymitch's canine snarl only seems to motivate him. "I can't have both of you drunk when we need to train for the Games."

_Training? _

He walks over to Haymitch and puts the box on the table. Haymitch's eyes dart from the empty bottles to Peeta repeatedly. I swear at any minute he will pounce on the baker's son and strangle the light out of his blue eyes. I hastily remove myself from the doorway and step in between the two. Peeta's not afraid in the least. He goes over to the curtains and whips them open. Both Haymitch and I groan at the sudden invasion of light that pierces our eyes.

"We are going to train, just like the Careers of the other Districts," he explains, turning back to face us.

Train like Careers. What is he talking about? Did he sneak a few sips from the liquor bottles? "That's illegal Peeta," I tell him.

Haymitch extends a shaky hand to a rotund, green glass bottle and snatches it out of the box before Peeta can stop him. He urgently flips it upside down, awkwardly tilting his head with his lips wrapped around the small circular opening. There he waits for a gush of sinfully sweet nothingness to overtake him, saving him from reality's bitter clutches.

Nothing comes out. Not even a drop. I jump back as the bottle forcefully leaves Haymitch's grasp and smashes against the floor. Bits of broken glass angrily squid across the gray tiles and take refuge under heavy kitchen appliances. One piece deflects off of a nearby chair leg and charges for my face, blazing a bright red trail on the right side of my jaw.

Instinctively, my hand rises to my face to assess the damage. No blood; it's just a scratch. Still, I glower at Haymitch with the fiercest intensity I can muster. He lowers his head refusing to meet my smoldering glare.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch Peeta examining me. He's checking to see what the green shard etched on my skin. I turn directly towards him so he can see that it's nothing serious. I'm taken aback when his hand reaches for my face, tracing the line of my wound with eyes that glisten with concern.

Then in a flash it's gone. His hand drops to his waist; his eyes regain the stern seriousness they had before. I'm left wondering if that moment between us was merely something I imagined.

He clears his throat, "As I was saying, that doesn't stop the other Districts from training their tributes."

I can't deny this. Year after year tributes from District 1, 2 and 4 have come into the arena with a thorough knowledge of combat that they couldn't possibly have acquired during the three days of weapons training before the Games. They wield swords with an uncomfortable familiarity; treating menacingly spiked weaponry like distant friends that they cannot wait to reunite with.

I shudder at the memory of Clove whipping daggers at the Capitol dummies, strategically piercing them in the heart every time. You don't grow up learning to do those kinds of things. They don't come to you naturally.

"Katniss we are at a disadvantage," Peeta continues. "Our games just finished. What we can do is fresh in the memories of all the other victors. It was their tributes that we killed in that arena."

I wince as if he's reached across the table and pinched me. _Their tributes that we killed..._murdered...all in the name of the Capitol.

"They've had time to form relationships," Peeta sighs. "The only one who knows something about the people we are going up against is Haymitch." I look over at the tense, broken man beside me. He just grunts. His eyes glued to the bottles in front of him.

I don't have to ask why the other tributes were not formally introduced to Peeta and me as we made our rounds during the Victory Tour. Over the course of these couple of months I've learned how vindictively persuasive our President is. How would it have looked to see the beloved Finnick Odair or Capitol fashion mogul Cashmere with a beguiling smile plastered on their face as they became the best of friends with the rebellious victors of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games.

"So what do you want us to do?" I ask Peeta, genuinely interested in how he proposes to remedy the situation.

"There is only one thing we can do. We are going to get our bodies in peak physical condition. We are going to learn all that we can about our opponents. And then we are going to get into that arena with just as much of a chance to win as anyone else," Peeta's voice rises with every sentence. "Two people are coming home from District 12; one tribute and one mentor." With that Peeta picks up the cardboard box with the jingling bottles and walks outside.

In other words, Peeta wants us to become just like the Careers we've been bred to loathe. I slump down in the seat I was standing beside. How much of myself do I stand to lose if I view the Hunger Games from a malicious Career perspective?

There is so much I neglected to see when thinking about what the Quarter Quell entails. In many ways, the seventy-fifth Hunger Games are so much more paralyzing than its predecessors. It doesn't matter whose name gets selected from the shining clear crystal ball, it's guaranteed that they will have someone else's blood on their hands.

When I look at the faces of the other reaped victors will I see someone whose company I would enjoy? Someone who has a family made up of sorrowed siblings, desperately hoping that they are able to make it back to their district? Will I see someone I'd be willing to walk away from instead of drawing back on my bow and letting the sharpened steel tip pierce through their extremities? I'd like to think so, but I know it's not true. Because that isn't how it works. If I don't kill them, they will kill me. And they already contain the know-how to do it in the most efficient way.

Knowing that your opponents are already trained killers makes it hard to visualize them as anything other than obstacles to conquer. You can't view them in the same way that you saw the tributes from your Games. They've already experienced the horror once and are seething mad that they must face it again. The fact that Peeta considered this and chose to form a plan around it causes an uneasy feeling to prick at the skin on the back of my neck. How can you manage to survive this ordeal without shutting off your humanity? Peeta's already started to harden his heart.

"I've never seen him like that before." I'm at a loss. Where is the sweet, loving Peeta who took my hand the night before? The boy who I expected to yell at me for being foolish enough to drink myself into a stupor and then comfort me? "Say something Haymitch."

The words are barely audible, just loud enough that I can make them out. "What did you think would happen?"

I know Haymitch isn't asking me this because he truly wants to know my opinion. He is telling me that I am a fool for thinking that Peeta called me over here so he could wrap his arms around me. What hurts me more than the words that escape Haymitch's mouth is the realization that I know I was being naïve for thinking that things wouldn't change between Peeta and I. That he would be able to restore light to the place where the Quarter Quell had instilled a stifling darkness.

It isn't his job to do that...I chose Gale.

And while I'm being honest with myself I might as well admit it was foolish of me to think that I would be able to protect Peeta without becoming the thing I fear the most; a merciless executioner.

Though Haymitch's words were a well-needed revelation, I can't resist shoving his arm. He stumbles a bit and has to brace himself against the sink to stop from tumbling over.

"Don't tempt me, Sweetheart," Haymitch growls reaching for the curved black dagger on the table that he cuddles with every night.

I roll my eyes at him. "Try it old man. You haven't been able to hit anyone with that knife of yours in years." I haven't forgotten about his outburst with the liquor bottle. My hands are just itching to claw at his whiskered face and give him a matching scar.

He's about to lunge at me when Peeta walks back into the room. Peeta acts as if nothing is amiss, pretending not to notice the dagger rooted in Haymitch's hands and my knees pressed against table as I crouch on the chair ready to attack.

"I called Effie this morning and asked her to send over a list of names of all the living victors and the tapes from their Games. Haymitch I'm going to need you to tell us about them, since neither Katniss nor I talked to any of them"

Haymitch doesn't agree to Peeta's request. He just stares blankly letting the dagger fall from his hand. I ease my way back into my seat and take a hard look at Haymitch. The aggressive lines that marked his face moments before have re-positioned themselves, accentuating the worry lines in his forehead and the bulging bags under his wild eyes.

I guess this affects him in a way that Peeta and I couldn't possibly comprehend. We might not have been able to chat with the other victors, but Haymitch has known them for years. Some of them he would even consider friends, as difficult as that is to digest. However, I'm nowhere near an expert on friendship.

"Is that all?" Haymitch groans, still over by the sink.

"No. We'll meet here every morning, except Sunday, at 9. Don't be late." He looks over at me before he turns on his heel and stiffly walks out of the door like one of Thread's Peacekeepers.

My eyes widen in irritated disbelief. Who is this person? And when did he become such a stickler for tardiness? This is not the same boy with the bread. This is someone else who wants to turn us into ruthless killing machines like the kin of District 2. "Don't be late," I mimic, "And why'd he look at me?"

Haymitch snickers. There's a mischievous glint in his eyes. "There's no way _I_ could be late."

I glare at Haymitch and his smile grows wider. I'm about to tell him how ridiculous he looks clutching the sink like a frantic kitten when Peeta pokes his head back in the doorway.

"Oh by the way, don't bother running off to Ripper to get more liquor. I paid her off and told her if I caught her selling any to you or Katniss I'd report her to the Peacekeepers," and then he's gone for good this time. He's craftily dropped a weighted bomb and left me with a shell-shocked Haymitch who has once again retreated to a state of delirium.

I refuse to spend my time coaxing him out of his misery. Instead I see Peeta's news as an opportunity to snicker all the way towards the door and leave without another word.

* * *

I see Peeta heading towards his house with his hands in his pockets. I don't care to follow him. I don't know if his approach to the Quarter Quell is tough love or a result of him being afraid of going back to the place that haunts his dreams. Wasn't he the one who told me that he didn't want be another pawn in the Capitol's sick Games? I kick at a pebble by my feet pretending that it's him and watch as it flies away from me, bouncing erratically on the bubbled brick and coming to a halt near the roots of a Magnolia bush.

Instantly I feel guilty.

****So I felt like it was important to include a re-imagined version of this scene from CF because it talks about a new approach to the Hunger Games, which Peeta and Katniss never considered before. I wanted to make mine humourous, but also ask questions about what it means to head back into the Games knowing that everyone taking part is an experienced killer. Does it make it easier? Does it turn you into something else? Are you able to see the people for who they are or only for what they can do? Just some questions I asked myself.****


	4. Chapter 4 - I Won't Object

****What's up all you lovely people? So I apologize for the lengthy wait for this update. I thought I'd be able to get it up sooner, but I struggled with this chapter. I wanted to include just a hint of romance without making it seem too abrupt or awkwardly placed. I hope to get the next chapter up fairly soon to complement this one. The quote is one that I think is very fitting, not just for this chapter, but the entire story. I've played around with my formatting have you noticed? Haha****

* * *

Chapter 4

I Won't Object

_To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead - Bertrand Russell_

* * *

I walk towards the Seam eager to check on Gale; repaying the visit he paid me the other night. I know that he will be in the mines today, but sometimes he gets a break and makes a trip home to reconnect with his family, ensuring that there is enough food.

Once the charred remains of the Hob come into view my eagerness turns into anxiety. By the time I've made it to the worn dirt path that leads to the homely Hawthorne residence, I am completely terrified. What do I say to him?

I shake my head trying to rid myself of the nerves that cause my stomach to feel as if it's been invaded by a fleet of marching ants. "Don't be so ridiculous Katniss," I say under my breath. Why should I be getting nervous over the prospect of talking to Gale?_ Just tell him about your day. Tell him how you feel..._my mouth goes dry.

I try to imagine myself looking into Gale's steely grey eyes and telling him that I want to explore a relationship that focuses more on passionate caresses than strategic survival. That I'm OK with him loving me, and if he should want to brush his lips against mine or wrap his arms around me in a way that suggests something more than friendship, I won't object...

At least I tell myself that I won't object, but by the way that my pulse starts to quicken and my hands start to sweat, I'm not all too sure.

* * *

I let my memory drift back to the time I coaxed Gale into the woods using gifts composed of food and fine leather gloves to lead him to where I sat huddled in the shanty near the lake. I ran to him with the lives of those I love nestled within my palms, begging him to help me keep them away from the Capitol's malicious reach. He embraced me with a promise to go along with whatever I asked of him; words of adoration dripped from his lips and covered me in a blanket that was too thick for me to endure.

* * *

Now that I know my days in District 12 are few, I feel like I need to try to take the step towards the door his confession of love created. I know I won't get married. I know I won't have children. But I hope to die feeling like I understand what it means to love and be loved by someone else, in a way that makes my heart swell with joy.

What scares me is that once I take that step, nothing will ever be the same between Gale and me. I will never be able to view the lopsided smirk that spreads across his roguishly handsome face as just a characteristic of his features. It will be the source of nervous butterflies that will flit around my stomach in erratic laps. When I look at his nimble fingers, they will no longer be viewed as the skilled instruments that are able to twine wires into elaborate traps to ensnare woodland creatures. I will think of the way they feel against my skin and how the tingling trail they trace upon my body seems to linger even when they are no longer there.

All of it will be new to me.

My romance with Peeta did not prepare me for what will come when I enter into a relationship with Gale. I consider my fling with Peeta as nothing more than a fabricated fairy tale courtship. Something we've both been forced into to keep us alive. All the kisses, the embraces, the lovesick exchanges are not real. Those things exist between the Baker's son and the Katniss who went away to the Capitol.

The real Katniss, the girl who stayed behind in District 12 while the doppelgänger flirted with the Capitol audience, doesn't really know how intimacy works. She views this thing called love, which makes you as vulnerable as a fawn in an open field, as terrifying. Fear of this vulnerability is what prevents me from reaching towards the rusted metal sheath that blocks the entrance to Gale's home and knocking.

* * *

_Knock _I will myself, but I can't manage to do it. I'm about to turn around and hastily walk back home when I hear a steady stream of footsteps heading towards me. _Oh please let it be Rory. Please, please let it be Rory._

"Hey Catnip."

I inhale deeply, struggling to release the tension that's caused my shoulders to greet my ears and willing my hands to unfold from the stiff fists they've hid themselves in.

Gale grins when I turn around. Coal dust covers him, from head to toe. The upper half of the miner's suit slumps around his waist revealing strong broad shoulders and a stained sleeveless shirt. He wipes at his forehead, smearing it with black.

I try not to notice the way his shirt hugs his chest and focus on the lines of powdery black that decorate a significant part of his body. The sight of him covered in soot is so amusing that my nervousness ebbs momentarily. "Look at you," I gawk. "I've never seen you so dirty."

His eyes narrow seductively, "What? This isn't attractive to you?" He halts and puts his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest like a Mockingjay attracting a mate. "Women like a man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. So I've heard."

I shift my weight to my left foot, slightly uncomfortable by what the joke is insinuating. "I think your hands are the only clean part of your body," I remark, glancing down at the thick gloves that cover his fingers.

He shrugs and continues walking towards me. "Were you looking for me?"

I don't know why he bothered asking, he knows I was. I begin to panic thinking about how long he might have watched me standing in front of his door before I heard his footsteps. He's able to tread so softly across the leaf strewn floor of the forest, it's possible that he could have observed me for a great deal of time before he made his presence known. I urge myself to regain control of my emotions and quickly deflect his question by presenting him with one of my own, giving me time to recollect my thoughts.

"How were the mines today?"

"Brutal, like every day," he takes a seat and pats the ground for me to sit down. I tentatively take the spot next to him.

I've sat beside him many times before at our meeting place in the woods. The two of us silently perched on our rock, basking in the blissful freedom of the forest. Before now, I've never thought about the way his muscled arm feels pressed up against mine. Or the way his warmth emanates from where he sits and envelops me.

When he opens his mouth to speak this time, his voice is overly sincere. "How are you?"

How am I? This is a pretty loaded question and I don't really know how to answer it. I could be honest and tell him that I'm a nervous wreck and sitting so closely beside him is making the words I want to say recede to the dark corners of my mind. Or I could just be vague, steering the conversation towards the Quarter Quell.

"I'm...managing," I shrug. I decide it's safer to talk about the Games. "I'm all cried out, Prim made sure of that. It's hard to think about going back in the Games, but then again it was torture thinking about having to watch a tribute die year after year under my guidance."

And that's really all I want to say about the emotional trauma that's invaded my life. I'm curious to know what Gale thinks about Peeta's approach to the Games though, and that is the next thing I bring up when I open my mouth again.

"Peeta's putting us on this strict regimen to get us in top-notch shape for the Games. It's kind of ridiculous..."

"It's not ridiculous at all," Gale cuts me off before I can say anything further. "The other Districts have done it for years."

"Yeah Gale, but that's how you lose yourself in these Games," I huff, thinking about the way the Careers viewed the other tributes as slabs of meat to hack away at.

"It's not about principle anymore Katniss. You going back into the Games is not a coincidence and I think you know that. Do you know what you are?"

I roll my eyes leaning back on my hands. _Here we go._ He is going to tell me that I'm the face of a rebellion. I'm a valuable asset to invoke a revolution. Though I'm glad that our topic of choice is one that won't cause beads of sweat to form a pool on my palms, I find myself getting frustrated.

"You're hope."

My face clouds with confusion and I stare up at Gale in utter bewilderment.

"You, Peeta, and all the other victors, you're the ones who made it. Who fought against the odds and succeeded. And when you take the strongest of the people and cause them to brutally fight against one another, exterminating each other, what do you think that does?"

He doesn't wait for me to offer an answer. "It not only subdues what little fight people might have had within them, it completely shatters them. What will be left Katniss?"

His words echo in my skull. Before the people of Panem were completely oblivious to the power the Capitol held over its victors. They were left peacefully disillusioned. But now they get to see that even the strongest of them cannot overpower the Capitol.

"Now's the time for you to fight for what you believe in." He whispers the last bit, "There's so much you could do."

He's talking about turning my time in the Games into a plan to further promote upheaval in the other Districts that could result in the people regaining control of their homelands. Of course, Gale would agree with the idea of training like Careers if it meant taking a swing at the Capitol.

Instead of being repulsed by his suggestion I consider it. Unknowingly, I've become a figure that inspires the disenfranchised citizens of Panem to fight their oppressors. Bonnie and Twill made that clear to me when they showed me the soggy biscuit inscribed with my Mockingjay pin. If I embrace this image, would I be able to give the rebels the fuel they need to succeed? My hate for the Capitol has only increased and why should I let them take my life without causing a bit of trouble.

I mull over this idea, idly looping my fingers around a stray thread that dangles from my shirt. I don't see when Gale takes his left hand out of the soiled glove and reaches for mine. The gesture causes me to stiffen and everything I was feeling before he showed up in front of me rushes back. Slowly, he entwines our fingers, testing the waters, waiting for me to move away from his touch. I make an effort not to resist.

I'm exceptionally aware of how his hand feels against mine. Over the years they've grown hard and calloused from all the scratches he received while setting up snares and hunting. I wonder if that's how my hand felt when it rested in Peeta's cushy grasp.

I force myself to tell Gale something just as brazen as what he told me about the Quarter Quell; something that will explain why I allow him to intimately curl his long fingers around mine in a way that has never happened before.

"Do you..." I begin, searching for the right words. "Do you remember what you said to me...the night of the Harvest Festival, in the woods?" Nerves start to set in again when I ask him this question so I keep my gaze straight ahead. I feel his breath on my neck when he turns towards me.

"When I said I loved you," he answers.

His acknowledgement causes the blood to rush to my ears. I fight the urge to flee from this moment. To escape within myself and push him away like I did when we stood with our foreheads pressed together basking in the glow of the fire. I take a deep breath and turn to look into his eyes. "Do you still feel that way?"

He chuckles and raises my hand to his cheek, "Just because we had a fight doesn't mean those feelings went away."

"Okay," I let my hand slip from his and place it against the pavement to steady myself. "Maybe we could...you know we can try..." the words stay trapped at the back of my throat so I do the only thing I can think of, I lean in.

His lips find mine and I close my eyes, determined to focus only on his touch. He starts off slow, pressing his peach mouth to mine in slow lingering pecks that cause my lips to tingle with anticipation. For someone so lean and muscled, his kisses are surprisingly gentle.

When he sees that I don't pull away he starts to deepen the kiss. His tongue lightly teases my bottom lip, beckoning me to come closer and to press my mouth against his soft moist lips without reserve. He places his hand under my chin and tilts my head so he can plant feathery kisses at the corners of my mouth. My body starts to react, growing warmer, completely aware of his nearness.

I gradually pull away from him, feeling almost light-headed. When I lift my heavy lids I am gazing into his joyfully sparkling eyes. I want my grey eyes to share the same look of endearment, but I find there is something at the back of my mind that prevents me from ecstatically embracing cloud nine. The best I can do is smile back at him shyly.

Gale doesn't seem to notice my hesitation. "I guess you're one of those women who prefer a man who isn't afraid of a little dirt," he smirks, reviving his earlier joke. I can't help thinking that his statement is also meant to insult Peeta.

I gaze down at my hands that are resting in my lap and notice the smudges of filth that jumped off Gale's body and found a new home on mine. "Apparently you don't know how to keep your dirt to yourself," I scold him, swiping at the dark blotches on my shirt. He playfully nudges me with his shoulder.

"You have to go back to the mines soon?" I ask. My question is more of an escape route than it is a concerned inquiry about his schedule. I'm not ready to put into words what this moment means for us.

He nods, "Yeah. I'm just going to duck inside and see if I can rustle up something to snack on and then head out." He places two fingers to his temple and then rubs his hand through his jet black hair, a nervous reaction. "Can I see you tomorrow?" This is new. Never before has Gale asked to visit me. We've always just...found each other.

"Uh...yeah, sure."

"I'll come to your house in the Victor's Village," he sees my reaction at his proposal. "I have some herbs for you." I understand that this is a cover-up in case anyone should wonder why he is dropping by my house. I'm a little wary about seeing him so soon after such an emotionally charged moment, but I guess the sooner we are able to make sense of what is happening between us, the better. I nod my assent.

* * *

Gale gets up, stretching his arms out to the sky and then peers down at me with a raised brow. "Hey Catnip, I meant to ask you before, how did you get that scratch on your face?"

I push myself off the ground and smirk at him. "Let's just say, my mentor doesn't appreciate it when people force him to lead a life of sobriety." I notice Gale's fists clench at the thought of Haymitch laying a hand on me. "It's nothing serious," I assure him. "Just a little mishap with a broken bottle."

I reach out and give his hand a light squeeze. He glances down taking in the sight of my fingers on top of his and stares back at me with eyes that gleam with want. I know there are many questions resting on the tip of his tongue, waiting to bombard me, but that's all for another day.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I say.

I wave goodbye before he can say anything more and let my feet carry me home while my mind sorts out my feelings about the kiss.

* * *

****And so it begins! Katniss has taken a step towards the door of love. What will await her on the other side? What does Gale want to talk about when he sees her again? How will Katniss explain her romance with Gale to Peeta? Hmm I wonder, I wonder ;).****


	5. Chapter 5 - Warmth

****So sorry this chapter took so long to come. I became extremely busy, but I made sure it was long to make up for it. The quote comes from the conversation that ensues about love after Doo Wop if you own the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill CD. I highly recommend listening to her music if you haven't already.****

* * *

Chapter 5

Warmth

_"Maybe sometimes they've never been loved before. Or they've never been in love before. They don't know what the feeling is to be loved." – Lauryn Hill outro of Doo Wop (That Thing)_

* * *

An orange glow seeps into my room and colours my cream bedspread in warm, sparkling rays of morning. I welcome the bright light that invades my room like a brigade eager to remove every lick of dark matter from the corners of my sanctuary.

The night was not my friend.

Instead of enfolding me in a blanket of peace, it encouraged an onslaught of mental ramblings. From the minute I left Gale on his doorstep to when the sun nuzzled me good morning, I've been thinking about the kiss we shared.

What it means? How it compares to the other kisses I've experienced? If he will expect me to do it again when he comes by the next day?

I feel like I've done things out-of-order. I wanted to sit down and talk to Gale, not dive into his arms and suction my mouth to his.

I know there is no going back to our old friendship. All the other touches we shared before this one, I could brush off. Store them away in the back of my mind and let other worries pile on top of them. I could pretend like they never happened because I didn't start them. It was Gale who would _accidentally_ rub his arm against mine, or offer his protective grip to help cross a rotted log in the woods.

From here, things will only get more serious...more...confusing.

I try to replace the image of him as my hunting companion with one of him as my beloved. My heart flutters nervously as I picture myself introducing Gale to my mother and Prim as something more than my best friend. _As my...boyfriend_.

I have to reach into the black abyss of my mind and search for the word, tugging on it with all my might. It bears a weight that is extremely awkward to carry. I know that I will drop it before it's able to reach my mouth.

But when I think about it technically, is it really that hard to shift Gale from the best friend role to one of a love interest. Over the years I've become incredibly familiar with all of his habits.

I know how passionate he is about his family; in a heartbeat he would lay down his life to protect them. He loves the way the earth smells right before rainfall, how it reeks of slightly musky anticipation. His hand always reaches for his temple when he's upset and will swiftly glide through his hair when he's nervous. Whenever his jaw goes taut and he turns his back to you, he's battling a fiery war of anger and it's best to just leave him alone instead of pressing matters any further.

He loves the taste of cinnamon though he rarely can afford to keep the spice around.

He always smells of leather and foliage with a hint of mint.

His mouth tilts to the right when he smiles unless he's extremely happy, in which case his grey eyes will glow and seem to turn soft amber, though it's mostly a trick of the light.

At times, he can understand me more than I can understand myself.

I don't even have to use words when I'm talking to him. It only takes a look to shorten a lengthy conversation into a sentence composed of several words that would explain everything to him.

All of this and you'd think I would just leap into his arms, wrap my hands around his neck and bury my face in his chest, breathing in his leather cologne until I'm shipped off to the Capitol. But I can't do it. I can't make that leap. I can only creep forward on my hands and knees like an infant testing the floor.

I didn't hate the kiss.

It wasn't what I expected, however.

That's not to say that when our lips touched I thought I would instantly know that Gale is the love of my life. I guess I hoped that it would put a stop to the hesitation and prove to me that getting romantically involved with Gale is the right thing to do. But now, I can only think of it as the natural thing to do. I mean I've known him for so long and he already told me he cares about me. Who better to start a relationship with than your best friend?

I'll admit that it was tad strange to feel Gale's lips massaging mine, but at the same thing I felt a smidge of something pleasantly soothing spreading from my chest and coiling around me.

It wasn't like my kisses with Peeta. Those exchanges were empty and mechanical. It's like when you come across a pool of water and your hand reaches out to test the temperature before you decide to dive in. Whenever a camera would be trained on us, I would take his hand or press my lips to his because that's what I should do.

Kissing Gale wasn't anything like that. At the same time, it wasn't like the kiss I shared with Peeta in the cave. The one that had me forgetting about the hungry camera lens of the Capitol and reaching out to Peeta like the pressure of his lips was the only thing that could sustain me.

I know I shouldn't compare the two, but I can't seem to stop myself from thinking of Peeta when I think of Gale. The way that Peeta's hands are reassuring and soft and Gale's are hard and protective.

The pricking pain at the back of my neck reminds me that I can't have both of them. Giving my heart to one will push the other away, fragmenting whatever we may have shared into something uncomfortably unfamiliar. I already experienced a bit of this with Gale after I first came home from the Games, and more prominently when he found out about my "engagement" to Peeta Mellark.

* * *

A light knock sounds at my door and I become aware that it's approaching 9:00; I should start getting ready for my first day of training. The person on the other side of the bronze door takes the sound of my shuffling as approval to enter.

Prim walks in holding a tall green mug. I watch the steam swirl out of the top and disappear into the atmosphere. She's already dressed in deep blue pants and a cozy knit sweater for school.

"I thought you'd want something warm to drink before you headed off for training," she tells me.

I thankfully take the mug from her and sip on the steamy peppermint liquid, relishing in the way it slides down my throat and loosens my muscles.

Prim looks me over, noticing the small bags that decorate my eyes. "You didn't sleep," she sighs.

I shrug as if it's nothing. Lately, it's rare for me to receive more than four hours of sleep. If it isn't the incessant buzzing of my brain that keeps me awake it's the night terrors.

"Was it the nightmares again?" Prim asks.

I shake my head and take a long sip from the warm mug. I stare at Prim's compassionate face with a question hiding in my cheek. It seems silly to ask Prim for love advice, being as young as she is. But I've never been good at girl talk and have no one else to discuss the matters of my heart with. I figure since she's the closest person to me, it is worth a try hearing what she might have to say.

I look down at the mug. "Prim, what do you think it feels like to be...in love?"

She stares at me for a moment and her mouth shifts to the side in thought. I see her fingers reach for the bottom of her sweater and get lost in the warm woolly fabric. "Well," she starts. "I think that's something I should ask you," she giggles.

I know she's referring to my over-the-top relationship with Peeta. The TV screens portray us like the love birds in the ancient texts before the dark ages.

When I was a child, my dad used to tell me a love story about a charming young Prince with wavy deep gold locks and an appetite for adventure. Days when his sovereign father would be preoccupied with the concerns of his kingdom, he would hop on his burly black steed and explore the villages surrounding his home.

* * *

"_One day during the first snow fall, the boy picked up his horse from the stables and ventured out, taking the worn dirt path that he normally used to reach the butchers shop in the Eastern town," my father told me._

"_Was the butcher a friend of his?" I asked._

"_He would go there to play with the butcher's son," my dad smiled down at my small form seated on the wooden stool in front of him, fervently clinging to every word that left his lips. _

"_On his way there, the sky burst into a frenzy of fluffy white flurries, clouding the boy's vision and he ended up straying from the path."_

_I gasped, concerned for the boy's safety. _

"_He came across a beautiful girl with dark ebony hair that framed a face with deep ruby lips, and skin as white as the snow that layered the ground."_

"_What was she doing outside in that weather?"_

_My dad beamed down at me, pinching my nose. "Well, she enjoyed the snow. Her mother named her after it. She'd often sit by the stone fountain in the front of her grand house and sing."_

"_Was her voice anything like yours, daddy?" I grinned._

"_Her voice was mesmerizing Katniss. When she sang, all the animals would stay silent and lend an ear."_

_I tried to picture what she might sound like. I thought it was probably like the hollow wooden chimes that hung from the rafters of the flower shop. Whenever the wind would blow, they'd bang together and a deep melodic clunk would emanate from them. I would always stop and close my eyes while I listened to the soothing da-dunk of the wood reacting off of the circular plate in the middle._

"_Whenever the snow would fall, the boy would venture towards the girl's secluded home and listen to her sing from a distance. _

"_Why didn't he go up and talk to her?" I questioned. It seemed silly for him to sit there on his horse watching her all the time without saying a word._

"_He was very shy. He tried to once; he even jumped off of his horse and walked halfway across the wide field towards her."_

"_And!?" My hands gripped my pants in anticipation._

"_She heard him. She stopped singing and looked directly into his eyes."_

"_He ran away, didn't he?" I sighed shaking my head._

_My dad laughed at my reaction. "Well you have to remember Katniss, he's just a little older than you, maybe about ten years old. I remember when you had a crush on that little boy with the blue eyes, you used to run away from him like he had the measles."_

_My face went as red as a beet. During the second year of school I took an interest in a boy with a pudgy face and ash blonde hair. I remember when the light caught his eyes; they shone like crystals. They reminded me of the Curden's kitten—the family that lived a few ways down from us. _

"_Dad, you said you wouldn't tell anyone," I scolded him in a small voice._

_He raised his fingers to his lips and pretended to lock them. "Don't worry, it's our secret."_

_He leaned down and rumpled my hair. "Well you can imagine how __**he**__ felt when the girl saw him. Just like the rabbits that notice you right before your arrow hits them. So he ran back to his horse and galloped away, wondering what she might have said if he stayed."_

"_The boy stayed away from the house for a while. And as the years past and he grew into a man he began to forget about the raven haired girl with the silken voice. It wasn't until he went hunting in the woods that he met her again."_

"_He hunted like us!?" That really piqued my interest. To think of the Prince running along the spongy soil and hiding among the cedar trees to collect game for a meal connected him to me._

"_Sometimes he would bring the meat to the butcher, other times he would hike through the woods battling creatures more threatening than we could imagine, like hairy wildebeests and giant lizards."_

_I shuttered at the thought of encountering an abnormally large reptile scampering towards me._

"_The Prince loved a challenge, but he was no match for a great snarling bear that ran faster than any human when up on its hind legs. It chased him until he came across a little stone cottage in the woods and he hid there with his horse."_

"_Who did the cottage belong to?"_

"_The owners were little men with thick grey beards known as dwarfs. There were seven of them. The Prince found them behind the house surrounding a glass coffin."_

_My eyes dropped in sadness because I already knew who would be lying inside of the coffin. My dad noticed and plucked me off the stool, resting me on his lap._

"_When the Prince gazed down at the coffin he saw the girl who used to sing by the fountain, now a beautiful woman, lying deathly still. Her eyes were tightly shut and her face as peaceful as a spring breeze."_

_I leaned my head against his chest. "What happened to her?" I croaked._

"_The dwarfs said that Snow White had a very wicked stepmother who practiced dark magic. She was very jealous of her stepdaughter's beauty. She had a hunter chase Snow into the woods, threatening to kill her. _

_My hands came to my mouth in shock at the thought of someone doing something so horrible._

"_That's how she met the dwarfs," my father continued. "Word got out that the evanescent Snow White still lived and her stepmother ventured into the forest, disguising herself as an old woman selling apples laced with poison. She found the girl at home alone while the dwarfs were collecting wood and coerced her into taking a bite of a juicy red apple that put her into a deep slumber."_

"_Nothing seemed to wake her. The dwarfs tried everything. They didn't have the heart to bury her, so they laid her in the clear coffin."_

"_The Prince must have been very sad," I commented. _

"_Oh yes," my father agreed. "He was heartbroken to see her like that and determined to wake her."_

"_But how? The dwarfs already tried to."_

"_They did, but they gave up a little too soon," my dad's eyes sparkled showing that he knew more than he let on._

"_The Prince would visit Snow every day. He would sit by her coffin and tell her stories about his adventures. He would talk about the beasts he would fight in the woods, about his mother and father who were the King and Queen of the land. He would brush his hand against her cheek and sing some of the songs he remembered her reciting when she thought she was alone. Sometimes he would just gaze at her through the glass, other times he would lift it and hold her hand, which felt like cool metal against his warm palm."_

"_He cared for her?"_

"_He grew very fond of her, yes. He was finally able to tell her everything he wanted to say when he was younger. He visited her for weeks and then decided that he would take her home with him, hoping that his father may know what to do. And do you know what happened Katniss?"_

_My ears perked up, but I couldn't see how Snow White would wake up just by hearing the Prince's voice._

"_The Prince strapped the coffin to his horse and while they were making their way through the woods, the horse's leg tripped on a protruding tree root causing the coffin to topple off."_

_I gasped. "Oh no! Did it break?"_

_He tickled me causing me to flail with glee in his arms."Not at all. It fell to the ground and the shock caused Snow White to cough and the apple piece dislodged from her throat."_

"_And then what!?" I asked excitedly._

"_Well the Prince noticed her eyes fluttering to life and when those deep green eyes met his, he fell in love with her. What he hadn't expected is that Snow White would recognize him. She remembered him from years before. And even though she had been asleep, she could hear everything he said to her. It was like his words floated through the heaviness of her dreams and rested on her heart."_

"_They got married!" I beamed._

"_Not right away. He took her back to his palace and cared for her. The day that Snow White looked at him with eyes that sparkled with the shimmering speckles of bliss is the day he asked her to marry him. And they lived a wonderfully happy life together, filled with laughter and merriment."_

* * *

When I was younger I would have my father tell me the story at least twice a week. Each time he would add another detail. Like what the Prince did to make Snow fall as deeply in love with him as he was with her. Or how the wicked stepmother knew where Snow White was by consulting her bewitched mirror that decorated her vanity.

He waited until I got older to tell me the stepmother died by being forced to stick her feet into a pair of molten metal shoes which ate away at her flesh as the King's men chased her into the woods.

When my father died, the story lost all of its magic. I cynically looked at it as a foolish jumble of words. I thought that love like that didn't exist. That there was no happy ever after for anyone who lived in District 12, there was only struggle, poverty and helplessness that threatened to corrode your mind.

Now, I believe that I misunderstood the tale. There's a deeper meaning entangled within the words that would spew from my father's mouth.

For a moment I forget Prim is still in the room. She watches me with a sympathetic look in her eyes while I try to push the story back into the dusty dark corner of my memory, where it remained for several years. Bits and pieces of it keep trying to dance their way back to the forefront of my mind.

_The boy with the deep gold locks._

"Katniss?"

_The girl with the ruby lips._

"Katniss are you listening?"

_Blue eyes that shine like the Curden's kitten..._

_Who was that boy?_

"Katniss!"

I look over at Prim with a confounded expression. "Y...yes?"

"Where did you go? I called your name several times," she says slightly annoyed.

"Sorry," I glance down at the mug in my hands. "I was thinking of a story dad used to tell me."

She reaches out to me and wraps her delicate hand around mine. "I thought of an answer to your question," she whispers.

Her response stops the flow of memories.

She smiles, the type of smile that raises your cheeks to the corner of your eyes. "Ok so, remember how every winter mom would place the blankets by the fireplace to dry."

I nod trying to figure out what clean blankets have to do with being in love.

"And when we got home from school and saw the blankets there, how we would wait until they were completely dry and right before mom would move them we would wrap ourselves in them."

I do remember. The heat from the fire would stick to the bed linens. When you wrapped yourself in them you could feel the warmth radiating from the fabric and seeping into your skin. It would crawl up your feet to the tip of our head and create a feeling that was so fantastically comforting that you'd become giddy.

It was like the warmth made you forget everything that was troubling you. The more you would cling to it the more it would take away the cold, the worries and the hurt, and for that moment you were in complete ecstasy. Trapped in a world of heat and fabric that felt so inexplicably right, you didn't dare move.

"Well, I know it seems kind of funny, but I think that's what being in love is like. Just...you know...warmth that makes everything okay or at least better in some way."

I fondly squeeze Prim's hand because I do know what she's saying. I wouldn't have thought to compare the feeling of being in love to the irresistible warmth that results from putting bed linens near the fire, but it makes perfect sense to me.

And when I meet that adoring blanket, I hope I am able to welcome all that it's willing to give me.

****I hope you all recognized the fairy tale I was talking about. Snow White, but from the Prince's perspective. I wanted it to have some more depth. It doesn't follow the Disney cookie-cutter story, I modeled it after the Grimm's version. The real way the stepmother died was by being invited to Snow White and the Prince's wedding, being forced to put on hot metal shoes and dancing until she died. A bit sadistic...**

**Anyway keep that little story in mind. It will play a greater role later on.****


	6. Chapter 6 - Be With Me

****Another update so soon, I'm spoiling you guys haha. Wow! I did not realize how long this chapter was until I uploaded it. There was a lot to say I guess. Another lovely quote from Doo Wop, written exactly as the girl said it. There's a certain realness to it. I'm thinking of changing the point of view up soon, let me know if you would be interested in hearing the thoughts of another character. **

**Warning: There is some cursing so just a heads-up. Haymitch has a potty mouth.**

**AND I realize there might be a few of you wondering whether this is a Katniss/Gale or Katniss/Peeta romance. All I have to say is that I'm looking at both sides of the spectrum AND don't count Peeta out ;)****

* * *

Chapter 6

Be With Me

_"It's a difference from loving somebody and being in love with somebody...You could love anybody, but when you in love with somebody you looking at it like this: you taking that person for what he or she is, no matter what he or she look like, no matter what he or she do." – Female student from the outro for Lauryn Hill's Doo Wop (That Thing)_

* * *

Before the clock hits 9:00, I'm already on my way towards Haymitch's house. I try to separate the Katniss whose worried about her next meeting with Gale from the one who needs to strengthen her muscles to take on the other victors in the Quarter Quell. The strenuous exercise that I'm about to take part in is a welcome distraction.

Peeta's already seated at the table when I walk through the door. The curtains are open and the sun rushes through the windows and bathes him in a soft glow. He rifles through a stack of paper completely enthralled by the black scrawl that covers the white sheets from top to bottom. My stomach churns at the sight of him. I'm reminded that sooner or later I'm going have to tell him about Gale.

I walk over silently and take a seat as far away from Peeta as I can, on the opposite side of Haymitch. Our victor looks twice as dishevelled as he did the day before. Sleeplessness turns his eyes an angry red.

"Did you eat?" I ask him, feeling incredibly guilty for mocking him the other day.

"Couldn't if I wanted to," he mumbles.

I know this is one of the symptoms of his sickness. His overuse of alcohol disrupts his appetite. As soon as he puts a stop to his binge drinking he can't seem to keep anything down until the withdrawal passes. It could be days before he's able to ingest anything solid without gagging.

Peeta looks up from his papers and watches me. His eyes say that he feels empathy for Haymitch, but his body remains discontentedly stiff.

"Effie sent over a list of all the remaining victors," he informs us in a commanding voice. "We'll look at it afterwards. I'm still waiting on the tapes."

He pushes the papers to the center of the table.

"So each morning I wanted us to start with a run to build up our endurance," he instructs, cutting to the point. "We'll do three laps around the Victor's Village today and go from there."

The Victor's Village has 12 houses in total—six on each side. Each expansive house is generously spaced, ensuring that every victor is given a fair amount of grounds and privacy without having to blockade the homes with unattractive metal fences.

It takes about fifteen minutes to make your way around the Victor's Village if you are using the path. But Peeta does not expect us to use the path that was kindly provided for us by the hardworking landscapers from the Capitol. He wants us to run around the houses. Trampling through the bushes and slapping our feet against the grass that is still a bit sleek from the leftover snow that refuses to melt into the earth.

This turns three easy laps into a challenging and somewhat lengthy obstacle course.

From the moment we bound out of the doorway, Peeta is able to control his pace quite effortlessly. I'm surprised by the way his feet almost seem to bounce off of the ground. Even with the weight of his artificial leg, he is able to keep his breathing even. I wonder if this is a run he's done before when he found his mind restless with the haunting images of the Games.

I keep my pace with Peeta for the first two laps. Our feet hit the ground in unison and we leap over the shrubbery in a way that reminds me of our last treacherous sprint during the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.

Running comes natural to me. By the time I was 10, I could outrun each one of my classmates. Most would say it's because of my petite frame that I am able to move so fast. I used to believe them. Now I just think it's all my practice trying to outrun my problems.

Being next to him, hearing his breath leave his body in the same rhythmic progression as mine, is too much for me. I feel connected to him in a way that overwhelms me, so I let the endorphins take over and sprint to push past him. I concentrate on the way my feet sink into the grass and the dew licks at my legs.

Pushing and pushing, getting further and further ahead of the baker's son.

Both of us are a far distance ahead of Haymitch. He fell apart a minute after he passed the first house. I can tell that he hasn't indulged in any physical activity since his time in the Games. His drinking has turned him into a bumbling mess. His feet sloppily hit the pavement and he trips every couple of steps, cursing loudly so Peeta can hear.

I finish my laps and wait on Haymitch's lawn, refusing the urge to place my hands on my knees and catch my breath. Peeta joins me a little while later. He looks at me impressed as air works its way to his lungs.

"You always were fast," he comments between breaths.

I shrug my shoulders. We stand there in silence waiting for our mentor to finish his laps. I have to hand it to Haymitch, even though he struggled; he continued to run the entire time. He must understand just as much as I do that it's important that we take Peeta seriously, so that in the process he will get stronger too.

Peeta only gives us five minutes to get ourselves together before he makes us do push-ups.

Down and up, down and up.

This continues for some time. My arms start to shake and my shoulders start to throb but we continue to go down and up until I can no longer push back up. Then we flip over on our backs and continue to bring our bodies up to the sky and down towards the ground, working on our stomachs.

I lose track of how many times my stomach has retracted. It burns so badly that I grit my teeth to stop from cursing. Unlike Haymitch, who yells out profanities at Peeta every time he lifts his head off of the grass.

Haymitch's curses are a muddled mess, much like his workout form. "Peeta...urgh...I'll ring...your neck...ugh...for this shit...can't even feel...bah...my arms anymore."

"It's for your benefit Haymitch," Peeta calls out to him.

"Don't...ergh...count...ahhh...on it."

Before we head back into the house Peeta has us work on our reflexes. We take turns reacting to a small ball that gets thrown against the wall. The longer we can keep the ball in motion, the better for us. It reminds me of something Buttercup might do and I laugh under my breath as I imagine him instructing our workout.

* * *

By the time we sit down at the table my muscles are burning. I know that if I don't soak them tonight, I will be paying for it tomorrow. Haymitch can barely bend his knees without wincing in pain.

Peeta extends his hand to the stack of paper he pushed to the center of the table. "I got the list from Effie this morning," he explains. "There are some names I recognize from watching the earlier Hunger Games and I've already written a few notes. Others I figured we could brainstorm over and Haymitch could probably fill in a lot of the blanks."

He goes through the more familiar names, telling us what he knows and writing down what I'm able to remember or what Haymitch is able to fill in when he isn't being distracted by the throbbing in his legs.

There's Johanna Mason, the girl from the lumber District 7 who pretended she was feeble and weak. I think she only received a 5 in her training, but as soon as she got into the arena she was more cunning than Foxface. There was no stopping her once she got her hands on an ax It was unnerving to watch what she was capable of. She whipped the sharpened steel at her opponents with ease, decapitating victors in one foul swipe. If she becomes one of the tributes in our Games I hope she parishes in the bloodbath by the Cornucopia.

Peeta mentions Brutus and I cringe. He is notoriously known for his mighty physique. A warrior from District 2 is what they called him. He snapped several of the competing tributes necks with his bare hands. When it came down to the last battle between himself and a boy from District 4, he insisted that they fight without weapons and pummeled the face of his opponent until he was unrecognizable.

When Peeta brings up Chaff, Haymitch becomes very sour. I don't remember how he won his Games; it must have been before I was born. I do remember that he is just as much of a drunkard as Haymitch. Numerous times I watched him taking a swing from a bottle while he sat on stage during the reaping in District 11. His good hand gripped the bottle while his dark-skinned stump would paw at the air. Rumor has it that he lost his hand during a deathly Career ambush that killed his district partner.

Haymitch refuses to tell us exactly how he got away from the brutal Career pack that hunted him.

"You're not helping anyone by keeping this information to yourself," I finally tell him.

"If you want to know how Chaff won his Games, watch the fuckin' tape!" Haymitch spits out and then gets out of his seat and stomps towards the dining room.

Peeta and I stare after him. I guess the friendship that Haymitch shares with Chaff is a lot deeper than a few swings of vodka.

"That's enough for today anyways," Peeta relents. "Same time tomorrow."

I guess he's saying that to dismiss me but I just stay rooted to the same spot. I stare down at the paper with Chaff's name. I feel remorse over the fact that I could be thrown into the arena along with Chaff and forced to take his life.

"It's not your fault Katniss," Peeta says, referring to Haymitch's reaction. "We're all under a lot of stress." He tentatively reaches over and brushes his fingers against mine and then gets up. I wish he would keep those touches to himself; it makes it even harder for me to tell him about Gale.

"I'm going to go check on Haymitch," he tells me.

"Yeah ok..." I slide my chair back and rise from the table. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

I sit on my bed, playing with my hair while I anxiously wait for Gale to drum the front door. I gave up pacing an hour ago when my muscles started to tense up. Even after lying in the tub for half an hour while soothing salts brushed against my body and the smell of lavender filled the air, my muscles still feel like a stiff rubber band stretched to the brink of destruction.

It is quarter to 10 in the night. My heart beats out the time like the brass clock on the back wall in the study. I wouldn't say I'm nervous to see Gale. I'm curious. And my curiosity gnaws away at me until all I can do is think about it.

I've gone over several scenarios in my head. One is that Gale comes by, he drops off the herbs and we resume our friendship, acting as if the kiss never happened, except I can't act as if the kiss never happened because I initiated it. And I know Gale won't want to forget it.

So then we don't forget the kiss. We place it over to the side, where it's still visible it's just not the focus. Instead we talk. We engage in a very heartfelt and deep conversation, which explains why I am choosing to travel down an unfamiliar path and open my heart to him.

The worst case scenario is that he bursts through the door demanding that my mother give him my hand in marriage and the herbs are really a gift to smooth over his request. It's a bit farfetched, but not entirely impossible and it makes me ill thinking about it.

I get up and start to pace again. I think it's a little past 10 now. And then I hear it. Three distinct knocks at the door. I stand still and raise my hands to my chest while my ears strain to hear my mother's feet walking towards the foyer and the click of the lock before the door swings open.

"Gale!" I hear her say astonished. "How are you?" Now there is relief. She must have thought it was a Peacekeeper. "It's not your back, is it?"

Gale's voice drifts up to my bedroom in muffled murmurs. I'm only able to make out half of what he says.

"No, that's pretty much healed. I thought I should bring over some herbs, you could put them to a lot better use."

I hear my mother usher him in and the light _whoosh_ as the door snuggles back into the white molding. My mother's voice trails from the foyer to the dining room, leading Gale over to the plush mauve couch near the fireplace. She showers him with gratitude. Truly thankful to get her hands on some of the herbs that were so easily accessible when we lived in the Seam, and now seem unreachable.

"I don't mean to disturb you so late Mrs. Everdeen, I hardly have any free time with everything that goes on in the mines."

I know that now my mother is giving Gale her best sympathetic smile. It's one I've seen often over the years. Her brows will narrow slightly and she will look at you through her light brown lashes. Then the left side of her mouth will lift before the right and she'll nod, ever so slightly.

"I can't believe how much has changed," my mother sighs. I make my way down the stairs not wanting to hear the next couple words that may come out of her mouth. We've managed to survive the changes, no need to relive them.

"Hey Gale," I try to keep my voice as calm as I can when I walk into the family room and see him sitting on the couch. His hands are on his knees and I see his fingers grip the fabric of his slacks ever so slightly before his eyes meet mine.

"Hey Katniss," he smiles at me, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

My mother senses the change in the air and bids Gale goodnight before she gets up to exit the room. The tension is so thick it's as if it's rising off of the floor and creating heavy walls to trap us in. I worry that my mother won't make it through the invisible apprehensive barricade and will end up trapped in this room with us. It isn't until she's gone that I open my mouth again.

"Do you want to take a walk?" I don't want to talk inside of this house with its prying Capitol ears. It feels too invasive. The ideal place to have this conversation would be within the safety of our woods, but that isn't a possibility anymore.

Gale doesn't hesitate to get off of the couch. I noticed his discomfort the minute I laid eyes on him. He follows silently behind me as I grab my father's hunting jacket from the brass coat hanger and step in to the cool night air.

We walk in silence. My fingers fiddle with the thick metal zipper on my jacket as my eyes watch my hunting boots glide over the smooth red cobblestones. Gale is right next to me, an arm's length away with his hands nestled in the pockets of his pants. He stares straight ahead as if he knows exactly where he wants to go and his only worry is about getting there in time.

I wonder what he's thinking. Whether he is waiting for me to start the conversation, hoping that an explanation for my behaviour the other day will pour from my lips like water from a brook, or if he is just giving me time to collect myself.

I don't dare look at him, instead I try to focus on the way his feet hit the ground. I can tell a lot about a person's mood by the way they walk. It's something I developed as a child. It was a way for me to gauge how my mother was feeling when she finally decided to leave her room after my father's death.

When her feet would swipe the floor like the sound of bristles against a rough surface, I knew it was one of her bad days where her movements would lack meaning. On those days I'd avoid her, which happened more than I would like to admit.

The balls of Gale's feet tap the ground; his heels barely have enough time to kiss the floor before he shifts his weight. If I listen hard enough, I can hear the faint _dut_ sound as one foot goes in front of the other. He's anxious. I see it in the way his heel swiftly juts off the pavement causing him to rely on his toes for support.

He notices me staring at his worn black boots and looks over at me. I shift my gaze from his feet back to mine, acutely aware of his penetrating gaze.

"I don't like these houses very much," he says, trying to break the awkward silence. "There's something...off...about them."

I think back to him sitting on the couch, his body stiff and straight against the cushioned back rest. I understand what he means. It seems bizarre to have such extravagant houses located within a District riddled with poverty.

The victor's houses stand on top of a hill and watch over District 12 with smugness coating all the walls. They are too perfect. There's too much finery, too many rooms, so much space, and yet not enough freedom. Not everyone can dwell within these houses. And when you think about what you must do to call one of these marble palaces home, would you really want to live here?

I don't think I will ever look at my victor house and truly consider it home, that title belongs to my place in the Seam

"They keep the rain out," is all I manage to say.

When we walk by Peeta's house I stiffen and my pace picks up. I glance over to see if there is a stream of yellow shining from any of the windows. A sigh of relief escapes my lips when I confirm that all the rooms are in darkness.

"Why did you move into it?" Gale asks, referring to the house again.

I remember hearing a story about an old victor in District 6 who declined the offer to move out of his wooden hut because of all the time his ancestors had spent engraving the posts with stories of their heritage. A few months after his Games, a blaze erupted from the fireplace and engulfed the small hut with him locked in.

The Peacekeepers said it was an accident. The fireplace hadn't been properly cared for in years and the leftover soot and deteriorating structure made the fire impossible to control. "Accidents" like that occur all the time when a victor refuses the extended hand of the Capitol. I didn't need to watch my home go up in flames with my family still inside.

"It's a safer space for my mother and Prim," I say to Gale. He nods and I know he's thinking about the story about the victor from District 6 as well.

We walk on and I continue to study my feet, noticing the shift in the stones as we approach the end of the pathway that leads to the last house and then an electrified fence beyond that.

"Why'd you change your mind?" Gale says suddenly.

I start at the sound of his voice. I've been so preoccupied with staring at my feet that I'm unsure about what he is referring to. The confusion registers on my face before I can hide it.

Gale sees it and sighs. "I mean a couple of weeks ago I told you I loved you and you responded by telling me that you can't afford to think about anyone in that way. What changed?"

My face goes grim, "You know what changed Gale."

"But that's just it Katniss. Did you kiss me to do me a favour? Or did you do it because you realized that you might not have another chance to figure out what I am to you."

The fact that he is using my words, almost verbatim, makes me feel uncomfortable. It also makes me wonder how many nights Gale may have wasted lying awake and thinking about our conversation in the woods.

He grabs my arm to stop me from walking any further and turns me towards him. I'm still staring at my shoes.

"Katniss, I can't read your mind," his tone drops to a plea. I realize the only way for this conversation to make sense, is for me to tell him that I don't plan to come back to District 12.

"Gale," my voice strains as his name leaves my lips. "I'm not going to make it out of the Games."

I hear the sharp noise of annoyance as Gale presses his tongue to his teeth. "Katniss, how do you even know that? Why are you giving up before you've even been reaped?" He kicks at the ground, clearly bothered by my confession. Nothing aggravates Gale more than someone who underestimates their abilities.

"No Gale. You don't understand. I'm not coming back from the Games."

He raises an eyebrow, "As in, you'd rather die then come back to District 12 as a victor again."

I take a deep breath before I admit my reason. I know he won't like it. Talking about Peeta with Gale is always a tough subject. What I tell him now will either infuriate him or push him away from me, but I'm tired of hiding the truth from people who I care about.

"As in, my goal is to make sure that Peeta survives," I say, bringing my eyes up to stare at his face.

I expected him to yell. I expected his eyebrows to get closer to his nose and his eyes to narrow in anger. I didn't expect him to rip his hand away from my arm as if I was one of the Capitol mutts and storm away. He walks a few feet away from me before he stops with his back turned to where I stand and irritatingly clasping his hands at the back of his head. He stands there perfectly still.

I'm afraid that he will start to walk away from me; furiously marching back home and I will never see him again. I quietly walk over to him and place my hand on his back.

He doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, just stands there staring off into the distance. I notice that the stars hide behind a veil of fog. It makes me feel as if they are spying on us, hiding behind the wispy dark clouds so they can watch us without us knowing what they are up to

"What makes his life more valuable than yours?" The question is dripping with emotion that threatens to swallow me whole.

"Peeta came into this mess unknowingly," I rub his back as I tell him this, hoping it will calm him down. I can't stand him shutting me out.

"As I recall," he says in a low growl, "Peeta knew exactly what he was doing when he professed his love for you on the Capitol stage."

I try not to let any frustration creep into my voice when I answer Gale. "All that Peeta did—the announcement of his love for me, joining the team of Careers, the engagement—it was to protect me. You know what I owe him."

Being from the Seam as well, Gale understands what it means to owe someone. It's an unspoken rule of courtesy that those from the Seam live by. When someone does something for you, you find a way to pay them back for their kindness. This is why Gale came to my house with a bundle of herbs for my mother. She saved his life. He felt indebted to give her something just as valuable as what she gave him—the opportunity to see another day.

My debt to Peeta is one that is so incredibly great. He saved me from the cold hands of death twice, and continues to play along with the Capitol's games to keep me safe. The only way for me to repay him would be to offer my life in place of his.

Gale realizes this and says nothing further about it.

"So you expect to die in the Games?" He asks me.

"Yes," I say without hesitation.

"Does your fiancé know?" The question sends a pang to my heart. There is a lot that Peeta doesn't know, that I will eventually fill him in on. But dying so he can live is not one of those things. I don't get mad at Gale for bringing up the engagement. I understand why he referred to Peeta as my fiancé. He's also asking what's to become of my relationship with the baker's son.

"No, Peeta doesn't know. I already told you he's not my fiancé. That was an act to save the ones I love and to appease a rebellion, but it didn't work. The Capitol doesn't own me anymore," I say with finality. I am through with letting the Capitol control me. They won't kill me before the Games, it would be too anti-climatic.

"What does that mean for us Katniss?" Gale turns around. I can see the worry clouding his eyes. Since I no longer plan to pretend I'm engaged, he wants to know if there could be a future for us. Not as the star-crossed lovers from District 12, but as hunting partners who fall deeply in love until one must leave the other.

"This is all so new to me," I start. I try to remember everything I wanted to say to him when I met him by his front door.

"For the longest time, the chief concern of my entire existence was survival. How do I keep Prim from becoming a sickly shell of a person? How do I get my mother to snap out of the depression she's sinking in? How do I stay alive? There wasn't room for anything else because I thought that would weaken me," I clasp my hands together and squeeze them tightly. The pressure helps me to push through my fear and continue telling Gale how I feel.

"I never expected death to find me so soon. But without President Snow's announcement I'd still be living in fear. And I don't want to leave this Earth without feeling something other than terror."

Gale reaches out and catches a wisp of stray brown hair blowing across my face. He tucks it behind my ear and his hand lingers, stroking my cheek.

"Say what you need to say Katniss," he encourages me in the same tone he uses when he entices a doe towards him; beckoning her over with soothing sounds that promise a lifetime of beautiful merriment, and then an arrow pierces her agile body before she has time to flee.

I look right into his eyes and I can see how badly he wishes to ensnare my heart like the doe.

_Is being with him so different from hunting with him?_

Everyone already thought we were together anyways. I would hear the whispers at school and catch the vindictive glances girls would give me. I didn't read too much into it because no matter what the other girls thought, I knew that the reason Gale and I went into the woods was to gather food for our families.

But I guess some of the rumours were true weren't they?

We also went there to bask in the comforting solace of the forest together. It's where we could laugh as loud as we wanted to, yell or even cry, while leaning on the others shoulder for support. Without Gale, I'm certain I wouldn't adore the woods as much as I do now. There are memories of my father hanging from every tree branch, but with Gale by my side I could handle them.

As much as I tried to before, I can't deny that I love him. If I didn't I wouldn't worry about him the way that I worry about Prim. And this is something that he should know. But he should also know that I'm still trying to figure out what place he holds in my heart.

"I think..." I shake my head, rethinking my words, "No, I know that I love you Gale." His hand stops and his eyes focus more intently on my face causing my breath to catch. He bends down and brushes his lips against mine.

He tastes like cinnamon, spicy yet surprisingly sweet. I can't help but think that this is the perfect spice to describe Gale. His rough exterior hides a side of him that is so pleasant and overwhelming in its warmth.

The feeling of his mouth so close to mine is such a tantalizing gesture that I move closer to him and place my hands on his chest. His heart beats steadily under the thick brown sweater that he wears.

"I love you," I breathe," but..."

His lips are by my ear. He playfully bites my lobe and leaves a line of kisses along my jaw. The feeling of him is so new, so intimate it's dizzying.

"But?" He urges me on, resting his forehead against mine.

I wrap my arms around his neck and close my eyes. "But I need to figure out in what way."

He places his arms around my waist and pulls me in to close the little gap that separated our bodies. We stand there, arms wrapped around each other, not saying a word.

I try to stay relaxed as my senses tingle with awareness at the feel of his body pressed against mine._ This is how it is now _I tell myself. _Don't run from it, embrace it._ So I let time pass and push away any of the doubts that threaten to pull me away from Gale's arms.

Gale shifts his position and cups my face in both of his hands. "And you'll be with me while you figure it out?" he whispers.

_You can't know love if you don't reach out for it Katniss._

"Yes." I nod and my eyes flutter open to disappear in his eager gaze. "Yes I'll be with you."

****Long chapter, but I finally got out what I wanted to say. Hoped you enjoyed the fluff. Now, the real surprises begin *grins* ****


	7. Chapter 7 - Fix You

Chapter 7

Fix You

_Lights will guide you home / And ignite your bones / __And I will try to fix you_ - Coldplay

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Five days.

All it took was five days of physical exertion to completely unravel my resolve.

I no longer feel the same fervor to save the baker's son from the peril he may face in the arena. The image of his azure eyes no longer motivates me to protect the breath that keeps his strong, stocky form from finding a bed in the soil. The only thing I can think about as I lay here, tethered to my mattress by the pins and needles that jab at my joints every time I shift, is how much I hate Peeta Mellark.

Peeta Mellark, the one who thought it would be worth our benefit to hoist burlap sacks filled with dirt on our backs as we trudged up and down the grassy knoll near the last Victor's house. The boy who insisted that we sit in a squat, straining our leg muscles until they trembled like a frightened mouse. The golden-haired victor who—after all of pushing and throwing and climbing and running—is still able to show up the next day without the slightest hint of physical distress on his face.

Meanwhile, his insanely militant workout has turned _me_ into one of my mother's arthritic clients. I don't even think I can remember what it feels like to lift my arms without a shock of pain surging through my muscles. The aches seem to reach the very hollow of my bones and radiate with such an astounding intensity that I can only lie on my back in an awkwardly stiff position.

My salt soaks stopped working for me after the second day. I tried several different herbal concoctions afterward. I finally thought I had something by blending white willow with peppermint to form a muscle relaxant paste and downing several mugs of bitter black licorice tea, trying to ease the inflammation out of my body. I was able to wiggle myself into a loose camisole and climb into my bed without hissing at the complaints from my muscles as if I was walking on hot coals. I actually felt my body relaxing as I burrowed under the blankets and thought I would wake up feeling pleasantly refreshed. Unfortunately, the nagging soreness seemed to come back with a vengeance as I dozed.

Of course, the wise thing to do would be to go to my mother since she is known for her healing hands and have her construct something to rid me of the pain, but the willow and licorice had created such a blissfully numbing effect that I didn't think I needed her help. Now I can't even lift myself out of the bed.

I imagine that this is what Greasy Sae's battered red wagon must feel like. Squeaking noisily as it carts vats of steaming stew to and from Sae's house when there are celebratory fairs on the streets of District 12. My body feels as if it's been dragged across the uneven district terrain, scraping against every rock shard that's made a home within the earth. It painfully creaks like the ragged metal handle that extends from the faded square frame.

My only hope is that my mother will curiously poke her head through the doorway, realizing that I am late for my training with the other victors, and heal my aching bones.

I cock my head trying to pick up her footsteps on the carpeted staircase.

I hear a wrap at my bedroom door and smile to myself, relieved that I can count on my mother to notice when I don't follow my usual routine.

"Come in," I call out, peeping over the blankets to witness her worried face and tightly coiled blonde hair enter into my room.

But the person who opens the door is not my mother.

I frown and without thinking hoist the blankets over my head, moaning audibly as my joints retaliate with a very sharp scolding.

"Nice to see you too Katniss." Even though I can't see it, I know his mouth lifts in a smirk.

"Go away Peeta," the blankets muffle my complaint, but the vexation in my voice is clear enough that he will get the gist of it.

He walks over to my bed and I feel the mattress sink as he sits down near my legs. Without warning, he reaches over and removes the blankets from over my head. I stare back at him with eyes that scream my discontent. On the inside I am seething with venom, but on the outside all I can manage to do is twist my face into my most menacing glare without wincing in pain. He looks thoroughly amused. His eyes dance with jovial delight and I see him bite down on his lip to keep from laughing at me. This only fuels my malice and I narrow my eyes until he starts to blur out of focus.

"You didn't expect me to just let you sleep in, did you?" he grins at me.

I continue to stare him down.

"I'm not leaving Katniss."

I painstakingly fold my arms across my chest, biting down on my cheek to stop from voicing my discomfort. "Peeta I am not moving from this bed."

He watches me through the woven silk of his lashes. Studying my face and the way my body rests on the bed like a plank of wood. I try not to squirm under his scrutiny. I don't need Peeta Mellark surveying my limbs like a medical doctor trying to assess my condition. My pride won't allow it.

He suddenly shrugs. "Ok," he says.

_Ok? _I think. I try not to let the surprise rush over my face. I expected more of a fight. How could the same boy who pointedly stared me in the face a few days ago and advised that I be on time to training sessions, dismiss my unwillingness to leave my room without so much as a waggled finger. Something isn't right here.

"Move over," he tells me.

I look at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"If you're going to stay in bed, I'm going to join you."

_He knows, _I panic.

I watch him like a hawk as he gets up from where he sat beside my bundled feet and walks over to the left side of the bed. He gently lifts the blankets and shifts his body to join me under the comfort of the woven linens. I suck in a sharp breath of air. The second his weight presses into the mattress, my body will shift to the right and a ripple of stabbing pains will travel from my legs up to my shoulders, instantly. I can't stop my eyes from widening in anticipation as he lowers himself towards the bed.

"Ok! Ok!" The words frantically rush from my lips, "I'm too sore to get up, that's why I'm late."

He straightens up and turns to look at me with a chuckle stuck in his cheek. I wouldn't mind lending Peeta my fist to dislodge the humour from his face.

"I'm glad you find this funny!" I snap.

He rolls his eyes at me, but he is only feigning his annoyance. I can tell by the glint that briefly obscures his pupils that he finds the whole thing quite amusing.

I have all the fight of a tigress in my voice, but can't lift my arms to deliver the blows. I'm like a cub that can only hurl insults from a distance and grows anxiously frightened when the danger looms near. All I can manage to do is scowl menacingly at him.

"Stop being so stubborn," he tells me.

"Stubborn!?" I can hardly believe my ears. My body feels as if tiny workers have been given shifts to poke and prod it all night. I can't even wiggle my toes without a sharp tinge of pain running up my leg. "This is not stubbornness Peeta. I feel like a slab of meat that's been overly tenderized."

He smirks at me. "You're being dramatic."

"I'm being honest," I correct him.

He steps back from the bed and places his hands inside of his pockets, turning his gaze towards the window that is still shielded by my teal curtains. A blotch of red creeps its way across his right cheek and then disappears under the smooth peachy tone of his skin. "Well, sit up and I'll fix you."

_Fix You._ For some reason these words rub up against me feeling as if they intend to chafe my skin. It makes me feel like there is something other than the soreness of my muscles that is wrong with me. Immediately I think of my heart, pumping steadily under the protective baring of my rib cage. _What intentions are hidden underneath the docile expression of the baker's son?_

"I don't need you to _fix_ me," I spit at him.

He turns his head back in my direction. "Do you want the throbbing in your muscles to go away or not?" He scolds me, and this time he looks genuinely annoyed.

I do want it to go away. I've never felt this sore in my entire life, not even during the first couple days of hunting by myself. I would spend hours in the brush, crouching down with my knees to my chest waiting for a squirrel or rabbit to scamper in my direction. Sometimes my legs would be so stiff that my knees would refuse to bend. I can't even compare the pain to what I felt in the Games when an onslaught of Capitol fireballs shredded the flesh on my thigh. That pain was blinding, but it didn't invade my body the way these aches do.

I firmly place my hands on the mattress and attempt to push myself into a sitting position. At the first budge, my arms start to shake under my weight and the pins that rake body now claw into my biceps. I clamp my teeth together to stop the groan that hovers at the tip of my tongue, but it sneaks out, low and troubled. I feel the tender pressure of warm hands on either side of my ribs, helping me upright.

The rage drains from my body when I see the caring look in his eye as he grabs one of my bulky green pillows and places it behind my back. He leans over me to retrieve a parcel resting below my feet and I become inadvertently aware of the way that he smells like honeyed oats and musky cherry wood. It's a beautiful combination. I have to stop myself from filling my nostrils with the alluring scent of him.

The realization causes my face to flush with embarrassment and I curse my senses for being so keen.

"Where does it hurt the most?" he asks.

_Where doesn't it hurt the most?_ I close my eyes and take stock of all my pains giving them a rating from 'ouch' to 'ack!' "I guess if I had to choose, it would be my shoulders." I can't lift my arms up without moaning in agony.

He unwraps a bundle and I curiously take in the contents. I didn't notice the cloth package when he first came in. I guess from the beginning he knew that my body had betrayed me.

Inside he retrieves a bowl with a creamy lime coloured substance and a knotted blue satin scarf filled with ice.

"What is that?" I ask pointing towards the green ceramic bowl that holds the thick paste. I inhale deeply to try to catch a whiff of the substance.

"It's a salve your mom made. I told her about my soreness the other day and she came up with something to help soothe my muscles. I would have told you about it sooner, but you seemed fine, so I thought she already gave you some."

He scoops a generous portion up with his fingers and moves towards me, smothering a thick layer of the substance on my shoulders. As he rubs it in the scent wafts over to my nose. It's a mixture of strong eucalyptus, which causes my nose to twitch the more I inhale, olive oil and minced mint leaves; but there is something else I can't figure out.

Peeta notices the way my nose lifts to the air, sifting through the aroma like a canine trying to find the ingredient that seems to escape me. I don't have to ask him, he already knows what I'm trying to discover. "It's rue," he shrugs. "The oil from the buds."

Peeta understands the ramifications of his announcement. How quaint it seems that Rue still seems to come to my rescue, even when she no longer physically walks the earth. I feel comforted by this fact because I never want to let go of the little girl who seemed to always be on her toes, ready to take flight. I ease back into Peeta's hands and let him take care of me.

At first when he slathered the salve on my skin it tingled. But as my pores soak up the medicinal herbs blended into the ointment it begins to burn. Like really burn and the more he rubs the more it feels as if my skin is disintegrating in his hands.

"Peeta!" I call out panicked.

He doesn't let me finish before he quiets me. "Don't worry Katniss, it won't burn for long." And just as he says that, it starts to dissipate. He reaches for the ice pack and places it on my shoulders and a deep sigh of satisfaction tumbles from my lips. The feeling of the cold ice with the hot cream sinks deep into my muscles and sends a hush throughout my shoulders, numbing the pain.

"Feels better huh?" Peeta grins.

I languidly nod my head, completely lost in the feeling. "Do my back Peeta!"

He laughs. "I need you to turn away from me then, and to uh..." he coughs uncomfortably "Lift your shirt."

I stiffen as the awkwardness of his request grabs a hold of my ankle and pulls me back to reality. I know that my face shouldn't swell with heat at the idea of lifting my camisole up to show my back so Peeta can heal it, but it does. Countless times I've seen my mother and Prim unveil the sunken in chests of miners, or the genitalia of wounded patients without so much as a pink flush. Yet, I can't seem to expose my back without feeling like I've been placed inside the confines of an oven.

I gingerly turn my body away from him and though the pain still races up my legs and my arms, it doesn't seem to make as big of an impression on me. When I'm sure that my back is the only thing that he will see, I gradually fold my hands across my stomach and begin to lift the silk away from my olive skin. I hear the swish of Peeta's shirt as he reaches to scoop more of the salve into his hands and then I feel the tenderness of his touch as he lays his soft baker's hands on my stiff hunter's body.

He touches me lightly, applying enough pressure to spread the salve on my skin, but not anything that might scare me away. He moves from the middle of my back, rubbing in circles and then smoothing his hands to my lower back stopping at my hips. I fight the urge to crane my neck back; his hands feel so good against my skin that it scares me. His fingers carefully knead my flesh like it's a soft dollop of dough; smoothing away all the tense lumps and prepping me for the oven.

The contentment builds in me like a wind storm; swirling in my stomach and winding its way up into my chest until I am so overcome with the need to feel the pressure of his hands against me that I press my eyes shut trying to block it out.

My eyes dart restlessly beneath my shrouded lids and I feel sick with guilt. I almost scream at Peeta to use the ice pack, wanting to escape these unfamiliar feelings that are whirling inside of me for the wrong person. I can't tell if they are good or bad, I just know that they need to stop.

As soon as the cold hits my back a shaky breath slides out of my mouth. The palpitations in my chest start to still and I can think straight again. I try to convince myself that what I felt wasn't anything serious, _It was the ointment Katniss, you were just so relieved to feel the pain leaving your body and so very grateful that Peeta brought it to you_. I can't deny how wonderful it feels to arch my back without worry. It makes complete sense that this elation would manifest itself in that way.

"Just your arms left, you can probably do your legs yourself right?" he clears his throat.

"Yes," I nod clearing my head of the feeling that came over me. "Yes," I say with more conviction. "I can do that by myself."

Peeta sits down next to me on the bed and begins to massage the herbal mixture into my arms. His body faces me, but his eyes stay focused on my hand as his smooth fingers rub circles on my forearm. There's something weighing on his mind. Fear causes my heartbeat to hammer against my chest. I worry he was able to pick up on the change in my demeanor before I was able to calm myself.

"Katniss..." He says my name, but I don't acknowledge him, too afraid of the other words that may follow.

"I just wanted to apologize," he says finally.

I look at him dumbfounded. "For making me work out until I could barely lift myself off my bed?"

He smiles, but keeps his eyes trained on my arm. "No, for being so distant lately." He grabs the ice pack and begins to brush it along my forearm. I close my eyes absorbed by the healing feeling of the medicine. "I guess...well, I was angry with you."

My eyes fling open. I've seen anger flicker across Peeta's face before and I know him well enough to discern his discontent by his actions, but I've never actually heard him say the words 'I'm angry with you.' I mean, I guess I figured as much. I would be a fool to think that Peeta wouldn't be angry about all the trouble I've brought him. Snow personally threatened me, yet he is suffering just as much.

"I'm sorry Peeta," I say quietly. "I really didn't mean for you to fall into this deep hole with me. You shouldn't have to battle the Capitol like this."

He stops drawing circles on my arm with the ice and leans in towards me, pressing his lips against my ear. My cheeks begin to flare with warmth, he's so close. "No, not because of that. I was angry that you didn't just kill me in the arena," He whispers before I push him away.

Astonishment causes my jaw to swing open like a trap door. I never would have guessed that Peeta Mellark might be angry about me saving his life. Surely he knows that I could never have been the one to silence the beating of his gentle heart.

"Peeta," I say breathlessly. "That's the last thing I would've done."

"It would have been easier that way," he sighs. "None of this would have taken place if there was only one." He means if there was only one victor.

I know he's wrong about that point. It wouldn't have been any easier. I don't even dare to think about how paralyzing it would have been for me to sit poised on the cushioned Capitol throne watching the recap of the Games by myself; having to see the boy with the bread suffer under the hands of another tribute. And then be paraded around the other districts like a Capitol plaything without his reassuring grip to support me.

"It still would've been equally bad Peeta," I whisper. "Just in a different way." And I honestly believe what I tell him.

"It's just hard, you know," he lifts my other arm and begins to slather green goo on it. "Having gone through this process the year before and coming to terms with dying only to have to do it again." He shakes his head and his face transforms into someone older, burdened by a bundle of plight that he cannot fix. "I just needed some time to sort of deal with it, on my own."

I reach my hand towards him and let it rest on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly to let him know that I understand.

He glances over at my slender hand on his broad shoulder and then slowly brings his blue eyes to gaze at my face. My pulse shifts from normal to slightly erratic. The way he's looking at me makes me feel ashamed. His eyes graze over my face as if he wishes to capture it, creating a portrait in his mind so that he can remember it forever. I don't feel worthy of those beautiful blue eyes.

"Peeta," I push his name to my lips, taking deep breaths, forcing myself to tell him something that will ruin this moment forever. Something that I should have told him much sooner. "I should tell you..."

He keeps massaging my hand, but not in the same way he did it before. Now his fingers gently brush my arm, leaving a savory trail against my skin. I feel a new sort of burning, not the kind that made me wonder if I would be reduced to bone, but the kind that causes a pleasurable tingle to rise on my flesh.

"You should tell me..." Peeta eggs me on. But I can't remember what I should tell him. The feel of the medicine with his fingers and the ice is so relaxing my mind turns to mush and I start to experience the whirlwind all over again. I realize it's the same feeling I felt the night he looked deeply into my eyes as we stood outside of Haymitch's house that fateful night.

I don't dare try to name the flurry of emotion that is stirring inside of me. But I know it isn't right to feel this way (whatever this way is) and it doesn't make sense.

Me and him...

Him and me...

It's not real, is it?

Why does the baker's son continually try to draw me in when I try to push away?

I tug my arm out of his grasp and try to push through the haze that clouds my mind to discover what it was I wanted to say to him. Searching...searching...trying to move through the pleasurable fog until I see a name floating in the distance.

Gale! It was about Gale. I open my mouth to tell him, but he's already moved; feeling ostracized by my sudden rejection.

And just like that, the moment is lost.

He moves off of the bed and walks towards the door. "You should go take a shower," he looks back at me over his shoulder. "The warm water will do the rest of the work. By the time you get out you'll feel a lot better."

I stare up at him with blank eyes.

"You can tell me what you wanted to later," he gives me a sad smile before he walks through my bedroom door. "I'll see you at Haymitch's in a few."


	8. Chapter 8 - Rosa Part 1

**__** Haven't updated in a while due to being extremely busy, but here it is. The second half of this chapter will follow shortly afterwards. It was a little lengthy so I broke it into two sections.****

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Chapter 8

Rosa Part 1

_Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them - George Eliot_

* * *

Training today was equal parts good and bad. The good being that my muscles were generally back to normal and I could run and squat without biting my lip in pain. However, things were still a bit awkward between Peeta and me. He came to apologize for shutting me out, probably hoping that we could regain some sort of normalcy between us, only for me to hurt him by ripping my arm out of his grasp as if he's diseased. I know now I can no longer avoid the discussion about Gale. He expects me to tell him something and before the day is out he'll know exactly what it is.

When we head back into our mentor's house Peeta leads us over to the television set up on a black stand in the living room. He told us two days back that he received the Victor's tapes from Effie, but didn't suggest that we watch them. Perhaps he wasn't ready to face the Games again so soon.

I know the moment he had said the tapes were within his reach my stomach plummeted to my knees and I felt as if I might keel over from the anxiety. I understand what we are able to gain from watching the other Victor's of Panem outlast their Games, but I don't care to have any more faces of the dead visiting my dreams at night.

Today, I guess, it's time for us to face our fears.

I plop down apprehensively on Haymitch's worn leather couch facing the large black screen and drum my fingers against my thigh. Peeta walks into the room with a small clear case in his hands. He slides it open and pops out a circular silver disc slightly larger than my Mockingjay pin and inserts it into a slit at the side of the television. I marvel at this discovery. Even though the same television exists within my house, I don't watch it unless there are mandatory screenings in which case it's hard to avoid. I would have never known about the groove in the side of the black casing otherwise.

"So, whose slaughter fest are we going to watch," Haymitch's sadistic humour spews forth full-force as he slumps down in the armchair to the right of me.

"The Victor for the Sixty Fourth Hunger Games," Peeta says, focused on retrieving the remote from the side of the tube. "He's from District 6; I think his name is Kezzy Erwin."

Haymitch gives a very unflattering snort upon hearing the name of the Victor. "I don't know how much use this will be to you," he gripes. "He's hooked on morphling now."

I keep my mouth shut. I don't want to know what happened to Kezzy Erwin that made him prefer to live within a trance-like state of illusion and not reality. If President Snow had anything to do with it, I can guess it was pretty bad.

A blue flicker illuminates the black screen and then the recording starts to play. Peeta walks over to the couch and sits down on the other end, leaving enough space for another person between us. I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them to stop myself from asking him to sit closer so we can face the terror of recorded Games together. If ever there was a time for a braver and stronger Katniss, that time is now.

The very first thing that we see is the expanse of the arena, which isn't anything like the one I experienced. It's a vast savanna; tall wheat-gold grass springs up and surrounds the green patch that houses the Cornucopia. The grass extends as far as the eye can see, offering shelter from blood-thirsty tributes, but also hiding many other dangers—one being a lioness, thirsty for the feel of the hunt. The camera shows her prowling through the grass in a low crouch scoping out her surroundings and I know the slow pan away from her is an act of foreboding.

The camera zooms out to display all the tributes poised on their pods listening to the booming voice of the head Gamemaker count down from 20. The District 6 morphling looks thin, but eager. Determination lines his face and strengthens his limbs. Further down I notice someone vaguely familiar. The curly ponytail that runs down her back, the deep caramel skin...

"...is that?" I start.

"Rosa? Yeah," Peeta finishes with a solemn look in his eyes.

Rosa Deene, District 12's reaped tribute. Daughter of Marla and Huey Deene, the previous owners of the flower shop, and the twin sister to Lavi Deene, who is now married to Peeta's eldest brother Saff.

I remember Peeta mentioning to me, one of the nights we shared a bed to shelter each other from the onslaught of nightmares during the Victory Tour, that his older brother got married while he was in the Games.

* * *

_"Oh," is all I can say. I don't know why, but I feel a tinge of irritation wash over me. While Peeta was in an arena fighting for his life, his family was toasting to the union between the bakery and the flower shop._

_Peeta picks up on my irritation. "It's not like that Katniss," he tells me, pulling the blankets higher up on his chest as he lies on his back next to me, sharing the comfort of my plush bed on the Capitol train._

_"They weren't planning to get married until next year. But then with me being placed into the Games, they realized how..." Peeta falters searching for the right word. "Unexpected...life can be. You know Lavi lost her sister to the Games."_

_I nod and the image of the dark-skinned girl with an infectious smile and welcoming honey eyes blooms into memory._

_"So they just did it, the day after I left District 12. Had a small toasting, just my family and what's left of Lavi's and moved in together. My mom was against it at first, she doesn't like the Deene's, but she couldn't resist the merger," Peeta scoffs._

* * *

Lavi's tale is a tragic one. She lost both her mother and father to a crippling sickness that masqueraded as just a fever until it was too late to heal them. Then her sister received a death sentence at the age of 14. Her only living relative is her grandfather who helps her run the flower shop.

I've always felt a blind connection to the Deene's. I admired their strength. It was no secret that the family counted on the tesserae rations almost as much as the family's in the Seam. The flower shop had been in their family for years, but it couldn't bring in the revenue needed to feed five mouths. So each year, since they turned twelve, the twins with the black curls would walk hand-in-hand to wait in line for their rations. If it wasn't such a dismal reminder of the impoverished surroundings of the district, the image of the two caramel-skinned girls with their hands tightly clasped and their hair bouncing lightly against their shoulders as they walked would have been a picturesque sight.

They carried the grain and oil in their arms like it was nothing; just another day in District 12. Rosa would take the lead, cradling the rations in her arms like a child and looking back at her sister now and then to remind her to keep her head held high. They knew what it meant to lug the sack of tesserae grain and the barrel of oil back home, but they didn't let it define them. It was something they did to keep their family alive and they would continue to do it for as long as they needed to. It didn't crush their spirit. Yes they were poor, yes they struggled, but they still wanted to experience life.

Out of all the merchant families in District 12, I consider theirs the most genuine. When I was younger I would go with my father to trade herbs and stories with grandfather Kale. He'd beam at me with magical black eyes and weave fables out of his words laced with wisdom too clever for me to understand.

Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of the twins when they came in from school. They were ten years older than me so I would only watch them from afar. Lavi was always quiet, with delicate doll-like features and a shy smile. She would pull her hair into a low ponytail and look more at the ground than she would at your face. Rosa was the brazen one of the twins, always eager to make a new friend. I used to marvel at her hair, the way her dark curls hung in thick waves down her back. When she ran the wind would catch them and her spirals would flail out behind her in soft coils.

Looking at her now, standing on the pod with one foot in front of the other and her eyes trained on a blue backpack a few feet away from her, I can still see a trace of the affable girl with the curls and my heart aches for her. I was only six when Effie trinket placed a slim, expertly manicured hand into the glass bowl for the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games and drew a folded slip with Rosa's name delicately inscribed in black. Before completing the forlorn march to the stage she enveloped her twin sister in the most heartfelt embrace I had ever seen in my life and I contemplated whether they were speaking to each other, saying things that only they would understand without having to open their mouths because they shared the same DNA.

And now we've resurrected her so that we can watch her die all over again.

_You're not watching this video for her_, I tell myself. But I know that throughout the entire screening, my eyes will always be searching for her. My only consolation is that the cameras focus more on the victors of the recorded Games than the other tributes that participated in them.

* * *

The horn sounds and the tributes take off. Rosa scurries for the blue backpack, swiping it up with her left hand and continues to run towards the tall grass in front of her. The morphling from District 6 doesn't make a beeline for the concealing yellow grassland like I thought he would. He heads straight for the center of the Cornucopia and my mouth drops. My memory fails me, I can only remember imperative pieces of these Games and this part is not one of them. How on earth did this frail, wonton young man fare against the beefy brutes from the more dominant districts?

And then I see that he's quick, unbelievably so. His legs extend like a grasshopper and he reaches the metallic horn ten seconds before the first Career tribute, snatching up a spear and a woven brown sack then bolting for the tall grass to the right.

The next couple minutes of footage show him running with legs that seem to hover above the ground; leaping over sunken holes in the dirt in thunderous bounds. His ability to hurl himself several feet forward in a single leap like a metal spring is what he must have shown the Gamemakers to earn him a seven. It isn't until the second day that something eventually catches up to him—the skulking lioness from the first glimpse of the arena.

She's already had the pleasure of pouncing on a little girl from District 8 and severely wounding a boy from District 10. When she encounters District 6, she's riding on a predatory high and doesn't hesitate to attack him.

He doesn't have time to run, only dodge the ferocious snap of her snarling teeth. The claws of her left paw scrape against his left calve and he yelps in pain, crashing to his knee. She leaps to deliver a deathly blow to his back, but he turns and plunges his spear into her shoulder. The cry from the lioness is a throaty whelp of pain that makes me wince from where I sit. In the next second the morphling tugs his blood sodden spear from where it impaled the beast's flesh and runs off using the trees as a rubber band to propel him forward.

Much of the Games pass with the morphling evading danger and gorging himself on mushrooms and the crackers that lined his pack. Every now and then he'd stop to sip from a reservoir of water, his head pivoting from one direction to the other. Somehow I don't believe it's the other tributes he's worried about, but the lioness who still lurks in the grass despite her injury.

For the most part, the District 6 tribute does very little killing of his own. His ability to camouflage with the grass is astounding and his speed helps him outrun the others. The Capitol camera's begin to tire of him and flash to some of the other tributes: a strapping young man from 2 scoring fish in the watering hole near the Cornucopia; a tall blonde-haired girl from 4 ingesting a handful of poisonous Oleander bulbs and convulsing minutes after to the sound of a canon; then to Rosa.

She no longer carries the blue backpack, instead there's a dagger in her right hand and a bunch of the same Oleander leaves in her belt. I know Rosa intends to use the flowers as a weapon. Her experience in the flower shop would make her aware of the deadly properties of the pointy flowers.

I wonder why the cameras linger on her.

They watch her trek through the tall golden grass towards a small pool of murky water that I know is brimming with bacteria. Rosa kneels down inspecting the water, using her dagger to create swirls in the foggy surface. Her nose wrinkles and I guess the pungent smell of decay has reached her nostrils.

She suddenly rises from the pool and I start at her swiftness, unknowingly leaning in towards the TV screen, but I don't see or hear anything out of the ordinary.

It isn't until a slight ruffle of grass moves to the right of her that I realize what she's noticed and why the Capitol has chosen to disregard the antics of District 6 for the exploits of District 12.


	9. Chapter 9 - Rosa Part 2

****Just thought I might elaborate on why I chose to give the male Morphling from District 6 a back story. In Suzanne Collin's _Catching Fire_ all you really learn about the Morphling is that he is not all there. I just wanted to flush him out a bit. I changed his age to make him more relevant and gave you a glimpse into his Games because there is a crippling sadness about him****

* * *

Chapter 9

Rosa Part 2

_I am he as you are he as you are me / And we are all together – 'I am the Walrus by The Beatles  
_

* * *

The lioness appears with a gash in her right shoulder, crouching down and exposing a mouth full of sharpened white fangs. She creeps out of the concealing grass, walking around the water in a way that emphasizes her magnificence. I find it extremely difficult to watch her and not be hypnotized by the sashay of her hips and the flickering of her tail. She's hauntingly beautiful; from the silken gold of her coat to the abnormal sea green of her eyes. I wasn't able to see it before because of how fearlessly she ambushed her prey in sleek blinding movements, but now that she has an injury she takes her time.

I remember this part of the Games because of how quickly victory receded into tragedy.

I slide off of the couch to sit on the floor, rubbing my palms against the rough mat. The knotted wool scraping against my palms helps to remind me of where I am_. I'm in Haymitch's house, not hidden among the brush in the arena_, is the mantra I repeat over and over in my head.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a hand extend towards me and I grab it. I didn't notice when Peeta slid to the ground next to me, but I'm thankful to have the feel of his hand as another way of grounding me as I watch Rosa in the Games. I look over at Haymitch and notice the way his eyes flicker from the TV screen to the ragged brown laces on his shoes. I know the Games are pulling him in, transporting him into the past. Taking him out of his house and to the Capitol; reminding him of what it felt like to watch his tribute battle for her life on the invasive big screens. I extend my hand to him though I don't expect him to take it, but he does. Together the three of us sit, linked by our hands to witness the demise of Rosa Deene.

Rosa slowly backs away from the pool of water and positions her dagger protectively in front of her. She plants her feet in the soil, bends her knees and waits. She doesn't intend to run from the lioness, I don't think that thought ever crossed her mind. The expression on her face echoes the one on the beast in front of her; fierce, bold, and filled with purpose. They stare at each other, taunting one another with the daggers in their eyes.

A deep guttural growl rumbles from the throat of the lioness as it bends its nose to the ground. And then it leaps. The lioness pushes off the ground with her hind legs and her bulky paws aim for Rosa's mop of curls. The girl hurls herself to the left, slamming her shoulder against the ground.

I inhale so deeply that my lungs feel as if they may burst. I involuntary squeeze Peeta's hand as I watch the lioness dive on top of Rosa and snap inches away from her face. I want to bury my head in my hands, but my eyes remain transfixed on the girl who brings her legs up to her chest, trying to push the animal away from her, but struggling under its significant girth.

The sharpened claws of the lioness drag against Rosa's right arm leaving an angry trail of torn flesh. A piercing cry tumbles from the lips of the caramel-skinned girl, but she refuses to release her grasp on the dagger. Instead, her hand tightens around the metal handle and she wedges the blade into the chest of the lioness.

Rosa manages to push the animal away from her while it's distracted by the trickle of warm red liquid that stains its beige fur. The lioness hits the ground with a thump and rolls to her side, back on her feet in moments. But that was all the time Rosa needed to rise, fueled by adrenaline, and pounce on the beast's back.

The act is reckless and unthinkable. The lioness bucks at the unexpected weight, but Rosa wraps one arm tightly around her neck and reaches towards her belt grabbing a handful of the Oleander bulbs, rubbing them against the green eyes of the lioness and shoving them into her mouth.

Now, the animal really struggles. Yelping and pawing at the ground in a rabid fervor. The lioness rises to her full height and falls backwards, knocking the air from Rosa's lungs as they both slap against the ground. The animal flails and whimpers against the soil and the girl painstakingly inches out of harm's way, still shocked from the fall.

It's a dismal sight; seeing the fearless predator reduced to a mewing kitten, soaking the earth with her life fluid. The chest of the beautiful large cat painfully heaves with every laboured breath that she takes. Eventually, she stops trying to fight the inevitable and lets her legs splay out on the tousled grass waiting for darkness to overtake her.

Rosa slowly crawls around the still body to stare the lioness in the face. The majestic creature is a lame version of itself, beaten and bruised; her eyes are eerily glazed over.

"It was either you or me," Rosa speaks in a hushed voice to the dying lioness with the twitching ears. The lioness purrs like a baby kitten and uses the last bit of her strength to raise herself up so that she is eye level with the girl who watches her on bent knees. She gingerly extends a paw towards the girl. It's a gesture that is not meant to threaten, but to show defeat. She understands that she is no longer queen of the savanna, and willingly passes the throne to Rosa, her worthy adversary.

And then the lioness cries out in pain and Rosa's high-pitched wail follows as a gleaming metal spear pierces both of their bodies.

I don't have to watch the screen to know what follows. It was months before I could close my eyes without being haunted by the image of Rosa's still body when I was six years old.

I can recall the stunned expression on Rosa's face as she peers down at the sharpened steel that's forcefully entered her abdomen.

I can recall the hunched body of the lioness that topples over as the last breath tumbles from her lungs, bringing the girl down with her.

I can see the District 6 tribute walking over to the fallen lioness with a satisfied smirk on his face, thrilled to have conquered the beast that left a ragged scratch on his calf.

But I don't remember the sorrow-filled look in his eyes when he notices the girl attached to the other side of the spear.

His face drawn, heavily lined with grief. He drops to his knees beside the girl as large tears fill his deep brown eyes and trail down his face, splattering against his blue jacket. He holds Rosa's hand like he's known her all her life, gripping it like a beloved family member, desperately willing her to fight the force that is trying to rip the breath from her body and take her spirit from the Earth.

Rosa's eyes flutter ever so slightly, staring at the lifeless body of the lioness, drifting to the yellow grass around her and then peering down at the hand that rests on top of hers. This is where her eyes stay until the life flees from her body.

I look on at the sight in front of me. Both the lioness and Rosa are dead; two beings so full of vigor just moments before, now lying peacefully still in a heap of blood and battery. So like one another.

And then the District 6 tribute breaks down. Sniffing and sniveling over the lifeless body of Rosa Deene. Staring at the girl like she was one of the most precious things he has ever seen. I just don't understand. Before this moment, he never acknowledged her. Why should her death be effecting him in this way? Even if it was an accident.

"I don't get it," I mumble to myself, but Haymitch hears me.

"Reminded him of his sister," his voice strains. "She died in the Games, two years before."

_His sister…Lavi's sister…how many sisters have been lost to these Games?_

I am only able to watch him place two fingers to his lips and press them against the ground near Rosa's body before I'm bombarded with guilt.

I feel guilty for watching this tape, as if I've intruded on something sacred to the Deene family. Something only they should have witnessed. Did they know that Kezzy Erwin didn't mean to take the life of spirited Rosa along with the lioness? That he only reached for the Oleander bulbs tucked away in her belt after crying uncontrollably over her corpse? It was through her death that he was able to win his Games, but he didn't rejoice in her pain. If anything, he looked as if he would have readily traded places with her.

I feel guilty for stopping my visits with grandfather Kale after my father died, because there were too many fond memories within the flower shop that made my heart ache for my dad. Kale tried to speak to me after my loss, but I have yet to try to comfort him over his.

I feel guilty for not being able to save Rue. And as I look on at the District 6 tribute I see myself, crying hysterically over the lifeless body of a beautiful song bird who could fly through the trees.

Rosa's face blazons my mind and I realize that she is several things all at once. To Lavi, she's the twin sister murdered in the Hunger Games. The other half of her, a side she will never be able to forget. To Kezzy Erwin, she's a reminder of the sibling he lost two years before, and even though the Capitol was the one who took her life, he feels responsible. To me, she's like Rue who also received a deathly blow by a spear. And Rue is like Prim, my nurturing sister whose place I took in the Games so that her innocence would not be stolen from her by the Capitol.

Rosa, Rue, the sister of District 6, they can all be described as one thing—people who died too soon and left a hole in the hearts of those who cared for them.

I release the grasp I had on Haymitch and Peeta's hands and push myself to my feet. "I don't want to watch anymore," I squeal. I don't care to see the District 6 tribute use the Oleander bulbs on the boy from District 1 to blind him and scour his neck with a jagged rock, ending the Games. I wish I never let Peeta put the disc into the TV. I wish I left once I saw the girl-whose hair would flail like a lion's mane when she ran-standing on the explosive pod.

These Games brought up too many bad memories. Things I miss, things I regret, things I desperately wish I could change. I still have my sister though it almost cost me my life, but there are so many others out there who are missing theirs; Rue's family included.

"Katniss..." Peeta rises and attempts to place a hand on my shoulder to calm me down, but I pull away.

"No!" I yell at him. "Turn it off!" I feel the tears starting to pool in my eyes, waiting to trickle down my face like a waterfall. "We shouldn't have watched this! We had no right to watch this! She doesn't belong to us." I'm trying to say that we are dishonouring the Deene family by watching one of their own parish in the Games for the second time, but I can't seem to spit it out correctly. Peeta seems to know what I mean though, and nods his head as he flicks off the TV. Haymitch just looks away and his mouth turns into a grim line.

"I didn't remember that she took part..." Peeta attempts to explain, but I cut him off.

"He didn't mean to kill her. She was like Rue...like Prim..." I stammer through choked sobs. I want to ask Peeta what the Capitol gains from all these deaths? Watching the brothers and sisters of Panem citizens die in the most horrifying ways. But I know he is struggling to answer that same question just as much as I am. And I am positive Haymitch gave up on his search for the answer a long time ago.

Peeta reaches for me but I push his hand away. I turn and race for the door. I can hear him calling my name as I throw back the latch and burst through the door frame. The tears fly from eyes freely and I can barely make out where I am going. I just let my feet propel me, desperately wanting to fling myself on my bed and sob into the soft sheets that cover me at night.

* * *

I run into him before I see him, his arms outstretched, anticipating the blind ambush into his hardened frame. I feel him envelop me, rubbing my back and whispering soothing noises into my hair that I can only guess are to stop my chest from heaving and my eyes from watering like a storm cloud. He grabs my shoulders and holds me an arm's length away as I wipe at my face to clear my vision.

"What happened?" His voice is commanding. I stare up at Gale's face and scrunch my nose in confusion.

"Gale?" I sniffle. "Y...you should be..be in the mines," the sobs are slowing, but my speech is still affected by the remnants of them.

"Your mom asked me to come by one last time to check my back after I walked you home the other night. What happened Katniss?"

Before I can answer I hear footsteps behind me and my name being called once more by the concerned body of the baker's son. I see Gale's eyes shift from my face to what stands a few feet behind me. His expression hardens and he directs his attention back towards me. "I see. I'm here now. I won't let him hurt you," he whispers, brushing a tuft of hair from my blotchy face and placing his lips against mine.

I freeze.

I can feel Peeta's eyes burning into my back as he looks on at Gale kissing me.

"I guess an engagement means nothing to you kids anymore," remarks a gruff voice that maliciously assaults my ears.

If I wasn't so mortified by the situation, my hands would be around Haymitch's neck in a matter of seconds. By now Peeta knows what I wanted to talk to him about. My back goes rigid as I picture the hurt that is probably clouding his vision and I turn my face away from Gale, staring at the stone tile on the walkway. This isn't at all how I pictured him finding out about my decision to test the waters with Gale. I wanted to explain my decision to him, that's what he deserved. Not this surprising display of affection.

Now I feel guilty, depressed and humiliated. I wish the ground would split open beneath my feet and swallow me whole.

* * *

****I plan on changing the POV for the next chapter. I'd like to thank everyone who is following this story, I have big plans for it, it's just taking a little time to get _exactly_ where I want. Let me know what you thought of Kezzy Erwin.****


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